paperlegends Story - Line of Dance, part 3
For notes, see part one
"Sire, My Lord, My Love." Merlin raised his hands and cupped Arthur's face between them. "There is some muttering about why you would go to war over the killing of a servant girl. They don't understand. But they will. In time. You know I would tell you, if anything I heard came close to actual treason."
Arthur's eyes narrowed as he assessed Merlin's words and Merlin withstood the glare. "You need to pinch the whispers in the bud," Merlin said. "The sooner the better, but certainly before we leave."
Arthur stepped away from him, over to the window, where he stood, gazing out into the night. "You're not coming," he said.
"Of course I am," Merlin protested. "You need me. Cenred's used magic in the past. What if he does so again?"
Arthur swung around to face him. "No, you're not," he said harshly. "And that's my final word. I can't afford to have you anywhere near the battle, when it comes."
The argument went on for over an hour and Merlin slept alone that night.
Arthur was gone when Merlin got up the next morning, so he went to see Gaius, until Gaius threw him out, and then to sit on the steps in the courtyard. Leaning back on his elbows, he stretched his legs out and tilted his face up to catch the warmth of the sun.
Movement next to him caused him squint one eye open and tilt his head to see who it was. Gwen settled herself next to him and put her sewing basket on the step below. She pulled out a neatly folded bundle of white cloth. Shaking it out, she held up a shift with white embroidery around the hem and neck. There was a tear in the side seam, which she set to mending, all without a word, or even a look.
Merlin opened both eyes. "What?" he asked.
Gwen smiled and shrugged. "It's a beautiful day and I have some mending to do."
"But that's not why you're here."
"He said 'no', didn't he?"
"And you've come to tell me to stop being stupid. That Arthur has a point and I'd undermine him, if I went."
"Actually, yes," Gwen agreed, finishing her locking stitch and starting to sew the torn seam, swiftly and neatly. "If the army knew Arthur had brought a sorcerer with him, they would never know if it was he who won the battle, or you."
"The army? Half the people I call friends don't know I'm a sorcerer."
"Not yet," Gwen agreed.
Merlin sighed. He gazed up at the sky and the light haze of feathery clouds. "It's all show, isn't it?" he said eventually. "All bluff and show."
She glanced at him and there was a hint of pity in the slight wrinkle of her brow. "Yes, it is," she said. She held up the shift to the light. "What do you think?" she asked, "Would this look better with some colour in the flowers around the neck?"
Merlin ignored her question. "What if," he suggested, "Merlin the magician stayed at home, locked in his room, seen only by Gwen, and a certain old soldier," at Gwen's sceptical look he amended that to, "or groom, happened to go with the army?"
Gwen smiled brightly. "I think you need to set up a workshop of your own in Gaius' tower," she said.
Preparations continued. Arthur made a rousing speech about treachery and people who betrayed their kin to treat with the enemy. Merlin forgave Arthur for his cruelty and admitted that he had a valid point about taking magic into his first battle as king. The lords and knights continued to occupy every spare bed in the town and, with the spring sowing finally over, more foot soldiers and bowmen arrived to take up whatever space was left, or to add their tents and bed rolls to the growing village of men camped out in the fallow fields behind the castle. Until, eventually, it was done. The stores were being loaded onto carts and the army was finally ready to move. On the night before their departure, Arthur took one final turn around the walls with Merlin at his side.
"Let me come," Merlin said, one last time. They were standing closely together in a secluded nook, overlooking the river.
"We've been over this. No." Arthur sighed. He gazed across the fields towards the south-east, the direction in which the army would march the next morning. "They don't know you. But more importantly, they don't know me."
"You've been leading the army for years."
"But always under my father's rule." He placed a gentle finger against Merlin's lips. "It's not just now," he said. "It's later, when I declare you my sorcerer. I can't take a sorcerer on my first campaign."
Merlin bowed his head. "I know," he agreed. Looking up he added, "But I don't have to like it."
Arthur laid both hands on Merlin's shoulders, leaned forward and kissed him. "Nor do I," he said. "I'll miss you."
"I won't watch you go." Merlin said. Arthur looked wounded. "Well, I might," he conceded. "But I won't come down and say goodbye."
Arthur's mouth twisted, but he nodded. "I know," he said. "But I will come back."
"You'd better. I'm not sure who I'd put on the throne in your place if you didn't. You're taking all the best candidates with you."
"I'd choose Gwen, if I were you."
Nodding, Merlin managed a smile. "Right," he agreed, "Gwen it is."
Whispering against Merlin's lips, Arthur said, "On the other hand, I could just come back."
Merlin leaned into the kiss, tilting his head to deepen it. When they drew apart, he murmured, "You do that."
The sun had risen, but had not reached the courtyard when Arthur walked down the steps with Leon, Lord Isen and Gwaine. Each was resplendent in their red cloaks, with their coats of arms on their breast - Arthur's dragon, Gwaine's gold pentangle, Lord Isen's stooping eagle and Leon with his red lion rampant on a white ground. "Three days," Leon was saying. It sounded like the end of a longer speech and he seemed to have no more to add. Arthur grunted in preoccupied agreement.
"Cedric Longstaff's men arrived in the middle of the night," said Lord Isen. "Half of them boys and the other half witless. I doubt there's a one of them can hold a pike without tripping over it."
"I'll put them with Dicken," Arthur said. "He can march them back and forth and bring them in at the end, to mop up the stragglers."
He paused on the bottom step and looked around at the activity in the courtyard. Gwaine sidled nearer and leaned closer still. "How did he take it?" he asked.
At that Arthur did laugh. "Not well," he said. "You know Merlin; he's convinced that only he can keep me safe. He gives me no credit."
Leon looked around. "Where is Merlin?" he asked.
"In his new workshop, I think." Arthur appeared unconcerned by Merlin's defection but Leon raised an eyebrow and Arthur laughed again. "He's sulking," he explained. "Where's that man of mine?" He caught the eye of a tall, gangly man with grey hair and a grizzled beard who was hovering near the foot of the steps and called out, "You there, who's your master?"
"I have no master, Sire," the man replied. "I came to fight for my king."
"And your name?"
"Myrddin, Sire."
A groom approached, leading a tall bay horse. Lord Isen bowed and left Arthur's side to go and meet him.
"Well, Myrddin," Arthur said, "you work for me now. Go and tell my groom to bring my horse."
"And mine too," Leon said. "The grey with the black socks."
Myrddin avoided Arthur's eyes as he bowed. He hefted his pack onto his back, turned on his heels and hurried away, putting a slight hitch in his gait, in case Arthur was watching. Lord Isen approached, leading the tall bay, and Myrddin dodged around them on his way to the stables.
Arthur's groom, Alwin, already had Bran saddled, but Leon's groom was nowhere to be seen. Myrddin delivered his message and asked if he should ready the grey.
"Aye, like enough you should," Alwin said. "Bowen's probably saying farewell to his missus and likely to be late back. Serve him right if he has to run to catch up." He looked Myrddin up and down. "You know your way around tack?"
Myrddin assured him that he did and went to work to prove it. He asked Alwin to point him out the knight's equipment and fetched it at once to Betsy's stall when Alwin did so.
The familiar stable smelt of warm horse and fresh hay. Myrddin offered Betsy his hand to sniff and she whinnied gently, butting his shoulder in greeting. Myrddin laughed, running a hand down her neck and whispering in her ear, "There's no fooling you, is there, lass? Let's hope your master and his friends are less observant."
Alwin watched with a critical eye until, apparently satisfied, he led Bran away leaving Myrddin to bring Betsy when he was done.
The stable boys had seen to the animals' feed and water. Betsy's coat shone from a recent grooming, so all Myrddyn had to do was lead her out of her stall and fit her out. She stood patiently while he hurried to complete his task. As a masterless man, his chance of getting close to the king during the campaign would depend upon him winning the favour of one of the king's friends.
He needn't have hurried, as he discovered when he brought Betsy out into the courtyard. Alwin and Bran were still waiting by the steps, while Arthur and Leon wandered between the carts and wagons with the wagon master.
Keeping an eye out for Bowen, Myrddin chatted with Betsy until she was claimed by Leon. Leon threw him a silver ha'penny and a word of thanks once he was mounted, but nothing more and Myrddin stepped back to watch Arthur clatter out through the gate with his knights behind him and his banners flying.
The sun was still below the tops of the walls and the air in the courtyard was chill, with the still, damp cold unique to an early summer morning. Myrddin shivered and pulled his jacket close across his thin chest.
A movement caught at the corner of his eye and Gwen appeared at his side with a basket hanging from the crook of her arm. She looked up at him, coughed politely and hesitantly asked, "Merlin?"
Turning to face her, Myrddin swept her a bow. "My name is indeed Myrddin, My Lady," he replied. "How may I serve you?"
She backed away. "Oh, umm... No. My mistake. I thought, I mean..."
He interrupted her. "Gwen, Gwen, no, I'm sorry. It is me."
Stopping, she glared at him and he hung his head, shuffling his feet in a show of contrition that caused a choke of laughter to escape her. "I've brought you a pasty," she said. "Since I doubt you've had time to pack much." Drawing aside the cloth covering her basket, she showed him its contents. "And a long scarf, a bag of oats and a couple of loaves."
"A scarf?"
"A silk scarf. Here, take it. My lady will never need it again." He took it from her and slung it around his neck.
Clasping both her hands in his, he said, "Thank you. For everything." She nodded mistily up at him. "You'll look after Gaius for me?" he asked and she nodded again, more firmly.
"Of course I will," she said. "And you'll take care of yourself?"
"And Arthur."
She gave his hands a little shake and, with a sly grin, said, "Yes, well, I didn't think I needed to ask you to do that; you'll do it anyway." Pulling her hands free, she started to pass him things from her basket.
Shoving the pasty in his pocket, Merlin swung his pack from his shoulder. Crouching down, he opened it and laid his blanket carefully aside, to put the bread and bag of oats inside. He put the blanket on top, pulled the flap over as far as it would go and fastened the buckles to hold it all in place. "I think I have all I need," he said. "A knife, flask, bowl and spoon, medicines from Gaius and a change of clothes." He grinned up at her. "And now I have food, too."
With a flourish Gwen pulled a broad brimmed leather hat out of her basket, un-rolled it and set it on his head. "Now you have everything," she agreed.
It took the better part of the morning to get the last of the wagons loaded and teams of oxen hitched to them. The wagon master bustled from place to place, directing wagons that were ready to form up in the column on the road outside the gates and shouting at his assistants to find so-and-so or whosit and tell them to get their arses into line.
He never stayed still for long enough for Merlin to catch his attention and get an official job, so, while he waited, Merlin helped load a large, four wheeled wagon with crates of arrows.
It was heavy work and the long crates were awkward to load. Merlin dragged them over to the wagon, one at a time, tipped them up on end and then lifted them, sliding them over the tailgate. A young lad, who introduced himself over the third crate as Martin, hauled them up onto the wagon and into place.
Merlin had just hoisted the last crate up to Martin, perched high above the ground, on top of the pile, when the wagon master paused by his side. "Cats!" he exclaimed. "It's like herding bloody cats. How many crates have you there?"
"Forty two," Merlin replied, adding, "Excuse me, sir?" The wagon master looked up from his list, preoccupied and harried. Merlin said, "I'm a groom, if you have a job for me?"
The wagon master cast a quick glance around the courtyard, as if he could conjure a suitable job from thin air. "What you're doing there," he said, "That looks useful."
"Oh, right, so I'll just keep doing this then?"
"That's the idea," he replied, and with a muttered, "Where's that blasted Alfred?" hurried away, leaving Merlin to assume he was now an official member of the wagon train.
The reality of travelling with an army on the march was nothing like Merlin had expected. The front rank of knights on their proud steeds, grouped around and following their king, had indeed been a brave sight in their shining armour, with flying cloaks and pennants, but once they were gone, Merlin saw nothing more of them and little enough of the rest of the army. His fate lay with the supply wagons and camp followers who trailed as an unruly mob at the rear.
At first it was an adventure. There was pride, even for the supply train, in the slow procession down from the castle to the town gates. The people who had cheered the king on his way had mostly dispersed and gone back to their everyday concerns, but even so, many waved and called out wishes of good luck as the wagons passed.
Once beyond the gates, the old Roman road to the south-east sloped up, away from the river towards the woods. As they crossed the open ground, the sun beat down on them, but the air was fresh compared to the closeness of the town. The blossom had been brilliant all spring, after the long, cold winter of Uther's final illness and death, and every flowering tree and bush was loaded down with the promises of a good harvest in the autumn. The occasional wafts of scent from may and briar growing along the verge was almost overpowering. Slowly, they slogged up the hill and when they finally entered the shade of the forest, the relative cool was welcome.
So close to Camelot, the old road was well maintained and the trees kept clear from encroaching, so although the hill got steeper, the going was relatively easy. At the top of the first rise and just before they started their descent into the valley beyond, Merlin paused and looked back. Camelot's white ramparts towered amid the treetops, just as they had the first time he saw them, five years before and, just as on that day, they were awe inspiring - glowing in the early summer sun.
Merlin's inexperience of war and its petty politics meant that he hadn't thought to angle his way into working any of the first wagons in the line and when he tried to get a job with the wagon he had helped load, he was rudely told that his services were no longer required. He ended up leading the team of oxen hauling almost the last cart in the train and as the day progressed, it was clear why the job had been vacant up until the moment of departure. He walked surrounded by and breathing in the dust raised by the wagons and pack animals ahead of him. Pulling Gwen's long scarf up, he wrapped it around his lower face.
Progress was slow and beyond the village of Greater Daunston the road deteriorated. There was not a whiff of a breeze and the air was heavy with a promise of rain that failed to arrive. Merlin took small mouthfuls of water from his flask to clear his throat of dust and was grateful every time they neared a stream and he was able to refill it. There were frequent delays when a poorly constructed cart tipped and shed its load, or simply got stuck in a rut, blocking the road and forcing all behind to halt. Even after the blockage was cleared, one way or another, it seemed to take forever to get the column moving again.
By the time they paused for the midday rest, a blister had formed on Merlin's heel and he broke into his supply of salves and bandages to wrap it. If he could have ridden with the drover he would have, but the team of four oxen apparently needed a man at their head if they were to follow the cart in front. Merlin had doubted this, but it was true that when he left them, to fill his flask from the streams they passed, the cart soon lumbered to a halt or threatened to wander off the road entirely.
They cleared the forest in the early afternoon and a couple of hours later they re-joined the River Cama, where it wound its way across the southern lowlands. The country appeared, at first sight, to be peaceful and prosperous. In the meadows around Allingham the grass was tall and dotted with wild flowers. Within a few weeks it would be ready for the haymaking. But beyond the obvious fertility, there were still signs of the ravages wrought by Cenred's invasion two years before.
As a major fording place over the river, the small town of Allingham had been largely rebuilt, but in the late afternoon they trailed through the village of Ashtonbury, where it was clear the locals were still working to regain their previous prosperity. The inhabitants watched with fearful eyes as the army marched past.
From among a group of silently watching women, a child cried out and was hushed. A man, old before his time, limped out on crutches from behind a cottage with only half a roof. His right leg ended in a stump at the knee. Merlin did not need to see the druidic symbols painted discretely on the nearest lintels to know that without illicit, healing magic, the toll of that invasion would have been far greater. He took a firmer grip on the rope he held, as he led his team out of the village.
There were towns and villages like Allingham and Ashtonbury across the south-east of the kingdom, places that had stood in the way of the Escetian horde.
Beyond Ashtonbury there was another ridge of hills to climb, but this stretch of the Roman road had survived the passing of the years in moderately good condition. Although it was overgrown, there were places in the twin tracks worn by cart wheels where stretches of the original Roman pavement could be seen. For the next couple of hours the column made relatively good speed. The road also offered wide grass verges where the strings of pack ponies could find better footing, allowing the carts and wagons to draw closer together.
The sun sank towards the distant Mountains of Isgard in the south-west and as sunset approached, the end of the wagon train crested a rise. Below them lay the valley of the River Dorn and on the river's banks, among a broad scattering of trees at the edge of a denser forest, were the dotted fires that marked the army's first camp.
One of the wagon master's assistants met them, walking down the column and issuing directions to where they should lay up. Merlin and his team were pointed at a space just off the road, some distance from the river and given instructions for the path to follow to take the animals down to be watered.
Between them, and mostly through Merlin's persuasive powers with dumb animals, Merlin and the drover positioned their wagon and unhitched the team. In spite of a day working for him, Merlin had not learned his name and nor had he asked Merlin's. "I suppose I'll see you back here tomorrow," he said, making it not quite a question. Merlin nodded. He nodded back and led his oxen south, to the path that would take them around the edge of the camp.
Merlin was left to look around and consider the options of trying to light a fire of his own, or seeing if he could get an invitation to join someone else's. He limped slowly away from the road.
Dusk was finally falling and it was darker among the trees. It was impossible to judge the layout of the camp, or see where the tents of the nobility and gentry were pitched. The fires of the common soldiers were dotted widely across the ground, flickering as shadows moved in front of them. Merlin's stomach rumbled, reminding him he'd had nothing to eat since breakfast with Arthur, other than the pasty Gwen had pressed on him.
His second option seemed the most attractive, particularly since the chances were that every scrap of useful firewood had already being claimed.
A few yards away a group of five women were gathered around a large pot over a well-established fire and, judging by the smell, had been cooking for some time. He hitched his pack higher on his shoulder and went over.
His offer to contribute fresh baked bread bought him a place to sit and he pulled his boots off, stretching his feet out blissfully. After a number of men-at-arms had trickled in, singly and in pairs, he also got a share of the hen stew in the pot.
They were twelve in total, by the time the stew was served, and it was clear that there were established partnerships in place, with most of the women settling immediately next to one of the men, amid much laughter and many coarse jokes. Merlin dunked his crust of bread into his bowl and ate.
One of the younger men wondered aloud about where they were headed.
An older hand laughed at him, telling him to get used to it because the poor bloody infantry were never told anything. "We just march 'til we get where we're going," he said. "Then they point us at the enemy and tell us to fight."
The woman who was handing out the bowls of stew paused at his side and gave him a good natured shove in the shoulder. "But you know where we are, don't you?" she asked.
The man grinned up at her. "'Course I do! A good soldier always knows what their high and mightinesses are planning. Usually before they do themselves." He looked around the group, obviously enjoying his position as elder statesman. "We're heading south-east, aren't we? Crossed the Cama, then cut across to here, to the Dorn. The Dorn flows into the Cama down that way." He jerked his head in a westerly direction. "But we're headed that way," he pointed south-east, "to the Bridewell and up towards Compton. That's where Broga's gone to ground. His place at Garsbury's up past there."
"Are we headed for a siege then?" the young man asked. He sounded disgusted by the idea and that was understandable, since he probably had fields and animals that needed him at home.
Merlin bit his tongue to remind himself to keep quiet. He didn't have to resist the urge to speak for long; the old soldier was ready enough with his reply. "Nah," he said scornfully. "Word is we're going to meet in Freydale, on the main road to the eastern sea." He nodded his head importantly. "Old Broga won't want us taking the main trade route to Gaul. 'Cause that's what the Freyl is. You mark my words; he'll come out of his hole to stop us stealing that from him."
The woman with the ladle laughed. "How'd you know all this stuff, Alf?" she asked.
Alf tapped one dirty forefinger finger against the side of his nose, saying mysteriously. "I just does. And I'm not telling. If I told you how I knew stuff, you'd be off finding out for yourself and then I'd starve, wouldn't I?"
Amid the general laughter that provoked, one of the other women started handing out leather tankards and the subject was dropped. Merlin accepted his tankard with a smile of thanks. He almost choked when he took a swig and found that it contained rough spirit, rather than the small beer he'd expected. He put it down carefully on the grass next to his knee.
The woman who had been serving the stew came over and sat beside him with her own supper. He smiled at her and said, "Thank you for this," lifting his bowl in salute.
"You brought the bread," she replied. She looked him up and down. "Not used to the rear, ducks?" she asked. "Not a bowman. Not got the shoulders for it. Foot soldier?"
Merlin laughed. "Groom," he admitted.
"Oh, hoity-toity." There was no malice in her taunt, but it was apparent that she assumed he was putting on airs. It seemed there was a hierarchy on the march that Merlin had never been aware of in the castle. The woman pulled a face and nodded sympathetically. "Lost your master, did you?" She didn't wait for him to respond, nudging him with her shoulder and saying, "Saw you with Gilbert Drover. He's a good enough sort, if a bit soft in the head. Can't drive to the worth of a pinch of salt, but cares for his animals. You can make a good living if you fall in with a man of property, like. He's got a good team there and another at home, I hear, ready to drop a calf. Make yourself useful and you'll be set."
He smiled and nodded at the flood of information. The woman gave him another nudge. "I'm newly widowed, myself."
"Do you, um, do you want me to introduce you to Gilbert?" he asked.
She shook her head, laughing. "Nah, he could get anyone, him. A widow with a nice, snug inn, or a shopkeeper. He wouldn't look twice at the likes of me." She placed a hand on his thigh and edged a little closer, saying, "But you're a handsome fellow."
Merlin placed his bowl down next to his pack and edged away, removing his leg from under her hand. "Um, no, thank you," he said "I'm spoken for."
The woman leant close to his ear, although she kept her hands to herself. "Shame. But she's not here, now is she? No harm in what she never knows."
Merlin edged again and his hand landed in a wet patch of what he hoped was mud. He wiped it clean on the grass and clambered to his feet, stepping back a few paces as he did so.
"Um... I, I just have to..." he waved his arm vaguely to his right. "So I'll just.." He took a breath and started again. "Good luck to you, My Lady," he said, and gave her a courtly bow, which made her laugh again.
"Lady?" she asked. "Bless you, you're as bashful as a virgin boy." She tilted her head and watched him as he gathered his bowl, boots and pack. "You be off then," she said.
He hesitated. "Will you be all right?"
She shrugged. "Don't you fear for me; I'll find someone to keep me warm. You go find your cold bed and much good may it do you. Take care not to freeze to death." Her words were harsh, but there was no resentment in her voice at his unwillingness to be her latest conquest. He bowed again, more moderately, and hurried away. When he looked back, just before he rounded the tail end of a supply wagon, she had already moved across to the other side of the fire and was talking to one of the men at arms.
Merlin settled himself on the ground against the wheel of the cart to finish his stew, then dug into his pack for more salve and bandages. Once he had bound up his blistered feet, he packed his supplies away, pulled his boots back on and hauled himself up to go and explore.
On first inspection, the camp appeared disorganised, with small groups gathered around fires, wherever they willed. It was not until Merlin had almost circumnavigated it, that he realised the baggage train was still at the rear, the knights were in the middle with the archers and foot soldiers in a great arc around them.
He made his way towards where he could see a large group of tents pitched in a clearing at the centre of the camp and, dodging a sentry, ducked between them.
Carefully picking his way over the stays that covered the ground like tripwires, ready to send any late-night wanderer sprawling, he wove his way into the middle of the group. After about ten minutes of careful progress, he spotted Arthur's distinctive striped tent next to a clear space where a dozen or so war horses were tethered to a long picket line.
Skirting the open area, he circled until he reached Arthur's tent. There was no sound from inside. He paused in the narrow gap between it and its next neighbour. Across from him he could see the line of horses. Bran was tethered towards one end, with a bowl of what was probably mixed oats and bran, a bucket of water and a pile of hay at his head. A couple of small wagons were pulled up nearby.
As Merlin hesitated, on the brink of stepping out of his hiding place, Arthur and Lancelot came into view and walked across the opening a mere six feet in front of him. Although they never glanced in his direction, he instinctively drew further back into the shadows between the tents.
In the still of the evening he could hear their conversation clearly. Arthur was speaking. "They'll have scouts out. At least, Cenred will. He's not going to sit and wait for us to appear on his doorstep."
"But not this far beyond Broga's lands, surely?" Lancelot asked.
"No, tonight we're safe enough. And probably tomorrow, on the march. But once we cross the Bridewell, we'll have to deploy our own scouts further ahead."
Arthur ducked his head and entered his tent with Lancelot on his heels, after which Merlin couldn't hear their words, only the rise and fall of their voices.
He settled himself on the ground and waited. Other knights arrived, in ones and twos. They all entered the tent and through the canvas wall he could hear the soft hum of conversation. The occasional word came through to him clearly, but never enough to make sense of. Eventually there was a burst of laughter and a loud call for someone to pour wine. Merlin got to his feet and peered out from his hiding place.
The coast was clear. Leaving his pack where it was, he went over to Bran. "Hey, boy," he whispered, holding out his hand for Bran to sniff and stroking his nose when he whinnied and nudged at Merlin's chest in recognition. "How are you? Missing Tageth, huh? Don't worry; you'll soon be back with her in your nice warm stable. This war won't last long. No siege to worry about. Arthur said so, so you know it must be true."
Bran butted his chest again and he took that for agreement. "Anyone else here I should say hello to?" he asked, looking down the line.
He spotted Leon's grey Betsy and was about to go over to greet her, when a hand clapped him on the shoulder. "Get away from here, you," ordered a voice. The hand tugged him back and whirled him around. Luc of Shernston, one of the corporals of the guard, loomed in front of him. He reeked of rough spirits and he seemed to have spilt a quantity down the front of his jerkin. He swayed slightly on his feet, but his eyes were fixed steadily enough on Merlin's face. "What're you doing with the King's horse?" he demanded.
"I was just saying hello," Merlin said. He held up his hands. "I met him before, at Camelot, I saw him-"
The rest of what he was going to say was cut off by Luc's fist landing in his face. He staggered backwards and fell to the ground. "Hey!" he yelped and rolled onto his back. He raised one hand to his cheek and pulled it away. In the dim light he couldn't see much but there didn't appear to be any blood.
"Come on," Luc said. "Get up."
Merlin stayed where he was. "I wasn't doing anything," he protested, surprised because Luc had never struck him as a violent man.
"You were interfering with the King's horse. When I find that Alwin, I'll give him a hiding for leaving the King's mount unattended. But meantime, you're coming with me to see the sergeant." He came forward, apparently intent on dragging Merlin to his feet. Merlin rolled onto his shoulders before Luc got too close, gathered his knees to his chest and kicked out, catching Luc in the gut and on the thigh.
Luc staggered back a pace but he didn't fall. He gave a growl, shouted, "Guards!" and dived for Merlin.
Merlin rolled to the side and kept rolling, while Luc landed in an ungainly heap where Merlin had been and scrambled after him on all fours. Luc was a bigger man but he was older, and slower as a result. He also seemed to have underestimated Merlin's speed because of Merlin's apparent greater age.
Merlin managed to get to his feet and backed away before Luc reached him. Rapidly he assessed his position in relation to Arthur's tent and his own abandoned pack. Luc levered himself up off the ground and charged. Merlin twisted left and got behind one of the poles that supported the picket line, while Luc staggered past. It would have been easy to jump out and tackle him to the ground, but Luc had more than twenty pounds on him and Arthur's lessons had always emphasised the stupidity of Merlin getting too close to a heavier opponent. Instead, he turned and ducked under the picket line.
Taking care to stay out of range of potential rear kicks, Merlin ran up the line, with Luc in belated pursuit. He got to the end, swung around the end pole and set off back down the other side towards Arthur's tent. He was more than half way there when the flap of the tent was pushed open and a man stepped out, calling over his shoulder, "I won't be long, hold my throw," before walking around behind one of the carts, not noticing the minor drama unfolding across the clearing.
Merlin raised his hand with his fingers spread wide and turned to see where Luc was. He intending to throw Luc onto his back for long enough for him to dodge between the tents, snatch up his pack and high-tail it away to the far side of the camp, but Luc was too close and he had to duck under a swing from Luc's powerful right arm. He twisted away and ran back up the line. Betsey had turned, as if to watch, and was almost facing him. He approached and petted her briefly before clambering back over the picket line, to the other side. He couldn't see Luc and keeping low he made his way down the line, towards his pack.
He had reached the end again when Luc reappeared, looming out of the darkness on his right. Merlin turned to face him and raised his hand, but realised he was now too close to the wagon where the knight had gone to take a leak. With one of Arthur's knights so near, he hesitated. Luc swung on the balls of his feet and his right fist caught Merlin on the shoulder, although without much force. Merlin jumped back, intent on running again.
A hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck before he could take a step. "What's this?" Lord Isen asked, still doing up his breeches with his other hand. "What's going on?"
Luc staggered to a halt, his eyes widening. Aborting his next swing, he brought both hands to his sides and stood up straight. "I caught him lurking about, Sire, like he was trying to listen to your planning."
Lord Isen laughed. "Much good it would do him, when the plans go no further than the next roll of the dice." He released Merlin, who stepped back a pace, out of range of being grabbed again by either Lord Isen, or Luc. Lord Isen looked him up and down. "What have you to say for yourself, Sirrah?" he asked. "Were you trying to spy upon your king?"
"No, My Lord. I... I was... I mean..."
Lord Isen's eyes crinkled in the face of Merlin's stuttering attempts to explain himself.
"He was interfering with the King's horse, My Lord," Luc said. "I was teaching him a lesson."
Lord Isen looked right and left, as if assessing the distance between where Bran was tethered and Arthur's tent. "Interfering?"
Merlin snorted indignantly and explained, "I was just saying hello."
With a small nod, Lord Isen said thoughtfully, "I remember you." Turning, he gave Luc the same thorough inspection he had given Merlin. He stepped closer. Luc held his ground and straightened further. Lord Isen took a deep breath and scrunched his face in disgust. "This man is one of the king's grooms," he said.
"He what?" Luc made a visible effort to moderate his tone. "Begging your pardon, My Lord, but I've been corporal of the guard at Camelot for more than six years and I never saw him before today."
"You may beg my pardon," Lord Isen replied, "but I see no reason why I should grant it."
Luc scowled and adjusted his belt. He opened his mouth, closed it again and apparently recognised that he could not win an argument and there was no point in trying. He shuffled his feet, muttering, "Well he should have said so,"
Lord Isen's lips twisted into a sneer. "I'm sure he did." He made a show of inspecting Luc from toe to the top, again. "Why are you still here?" he asked.
Watching Luc leave, Lord Isen shook his head, a slight smile on his lips, but when he turned to Merlin his face was immediately sober. "You're not the King's groom," he said. "And the gods know why I just put my reputation on the line to save you the thrashing you probably deserve."
"I wasn't doing any harm," Merlin protested again. "I was just talking to Bran. And I don't know why you interfered, either. Do you realise I'm going to have to spend the rest of this campaign looking over my shoulder, because of what you just did? Luc can hold a grudge and even drunk he won't forget that you dressed him down. It's me he'll blame."
"Ungrateful too, I see." Lord Isen studied Merlin. "There's something about you..." he said, "but I can't -"
A hand landing on his shoulder. "What have we here?" Arthur asked. "A spy?"
Merlin glared. "No, you... I, I mean, no, Sire. I'm no spy."
Arthur glanced at him and dismissed him. He looked at Lord Isen. "They're getting impatient in there. Deal with this and go take your turn. Poor Gwaine has his fortune resting on your throw." He gave Merlin a second, brief glance. "If I get back before you, I'll tell them you'll be with us shortly," he said, turning away. Merlin watched him until he too rounded the end of the cart that seemed to have been designated as the communal latrine.
Reclaiming Merlin's attention, Lord Isen asked, "Myrddin, isn't it?"
It sounded rhetorical, but Merlin answered anyway. "Er... yes. Yes, it is. I mean, I am."
"You seem very familiar with the horses and characters of the castle, for a man who is new to town. Why are you here?"
"Here, as in talking to Bran?" Lord Isen nodded. "Umm, well, he's a beautiful horse, Sire. I, I fell in love? This morning, when I fetched him and Le- the other knight's mount."
"Hmm." Lord Isen still sounded dubious, but all he said was, "If I discover anything has gone amiss with Bran, I will find you and I will gut you. You understand?"
"Yes, My Lord."
"Right. Off with you, then." He stepped back, signalling the end of the interview. "And don't let me see you causing trouble in future, or-"
"You'll gut me, Sire. Yes, I got it. Umm ... thank you?"
Lord Isen turned, walked across to Arthur's tent and ducked inside, leaving Merlin to retrieve his pack. As he bent down to pick it up, he heard a burst of laughter and Gwaine's voice raised in protest. He didn't stay to hear more.
Deciding that having been named groom to the king before a witness was good enough to make it true, Merlin explored the immediate area and laid out his sleeping roll under a small, two wheeled wagon parked close to the horses, at the far end of the line from Arthur's tent. Thanking his luck in finding one that was not already occupied, he spread out his blanket between the wheels.
As he was getting himself settled, he was aware of men walking past, laughing. He recognised Leon's voice jokingly lamenting Gwaine's poor luck, while Gwaine tried to defend himself against the charge. Nearby a dog barked, setting off others, until someone screamed at them and quiet returned. The duty guard patrolled the camp, a pair of legs in stout boots passing by within three feet of Merlin's head. Under the shelter of a large tree, a single glowing spot marked where the cook fire had not been properly damped down for the night. Merlin curled up and pulled the other half of his blanket over himself.
It rained in the early hours and the water found its way through the cracks in the baseboard of the wagon under which Merlin was huddled. His blanket was soon soaked and the cold damp brought him unpleasantly awake. Crawling out into a dismal morning, he packed his wet blanket away in his pack, crammed his hat on his head and set about the spare tasks of fetching and carrying that always accompanied an overnight encampment, taking care not to infringe on any of the duties of the actual grooms. The important thing was for the cook, occupied with reviving the fire, to see him busy.
It continued to drizzle on and off for the next two hours and he was glad of Gwen's hat, pulling it down over his ears so the brim didn't send the water down the inside of his collar. Food did something to warm him; the small boys who acted as the cook's assistants delivered oaten cakes to the grooms, and to Merlin, while the porridge cooked. Hot food did more; as soon as he judged there was nothing else he could do, without poaching on someone else's duties, he made his way over to the fire.
He was shovelling porridge into his mouth and making friends with Dillon, the cook, when Alwin returned from delivering Arthur's breakfast. Coming over, he stood next to Merlin and received his own bowl of porridge from Dillon's boy.
They ate in silence, Alwin's presence apparently enough to still even Dillon's flood of easy gossip.
Alwin was a taciturn man, but Merlin had always judged him to be fair. He had certainly been so in the past, when Arthur sent Merlin down to muck out the stables as punishment for some perceived dereliction or inattention. Eventually, after he had scraped up the last of his porridge and handed the bowl back to the boy, he turned to Merlin and asked, "Looking for a job, are you?"
"Are you looking for some help?" Merlin asked in reply.
Alwin stared at him. "No," he said baldly and walked away.
The rain had stopped while they ate, the sun had broken through the heavy clouds and the air felt crisper. Merlin paused to have a last word with Betsy and Bran, on his way to re-join Gilbert Drover. He was whispering instructions to Bran, to take care of Arthur, when an equine scream of distress jerked his head around. A groom, who had been leading a tall bay out of the line, was now fighting it for control, while its forelegs thrashed in the air above his head.
Leaving Bran, Merlin ran over to help, but before he could reach the pair there was an audible thump, the man cried out and fell. The stallion spun on his haunches, his forelegs hit the ground and Merlin was standing squarely in his path. Other men were rushing towards them and two soldiers reached the groom, dragging him clear. Merlin jumped for the horse's reins and, more by luck than judgement, managed to catch them. The stallion threatened to rear again and Merlin hauled down with all his weight, telling him to behave himself and stop playing the fool. Amazingly, he did as he was told and Merlin brought him to a stand, away from the line and well clear of the groom, who was now sitting on the ground supported by one soldier while the other examined his arm. The groom leaned back into his rescuer's hold with gritted teeth and the occasional gasp as the soldier moved his arm across his chest.
Seeing that the human was being cared for, Merlin concentrated on soothing the bay who was still restive and shaking his head. He held onto the reins near the bit and reached up to run his hands down the horse's neck.
A commanding voice demanded, "What's going on here?"
Answering that question twice in twelve hours was more than was required of him, so Merlin stayed mum with his head and eyes down while Arthur strode towards the group gathered around the groom. Once Arthur had passed, however, he shifted his position so he could watch.
One of the soldiers stood at Arthur's approach. "He's broken his arm, Sire," he reported.
Arthur looked down at the groom, who was hugging his injured arm to his chest. With the help of the other soldier he struggled to his feet. Bowing awkwardly, he said, "I'm sorry to disturb you, Sire. It was a wasp. At first, Romulus was just a bit skittish when it came near. Then he went crazy."
Merlin turned his face into the stallion's neck. "Romulus is it?" he asked. "Well, Rom, are you going to be good now?"
Romulus shook his head and nudged at Merlin.
Meanwhile, Arthur was examining the groom's arm for himself, without touching it. "Get yourself to the sawbones," he said, "and see if he can set that for you. If he can't, you should be able to make Camelot by evening. Gaius will sort you out."
"But, Romulus, My Lord?"
Arthur looked beyond the man's shoulder. "Isen," he called. "It's Hugh. I've offered Gaius' services, if he can get to him. He's your man."
Lord Isen had just emerged from one of the tents and at Arthur's summons he approached. He examined Hugh's arm for himself and, although he appeared to be taking care, Hugh flinched at his touch. Lord Isen grimaced and shook his head. "Go and get it seen to," he said. "I don't care if it can be set or not. Take Ned, he's a gentle ride, and let Gaius see to it, before nightfall, understand? I'll manage, and so will Rom, but you won't. Not without treatment."
Hugh pulled a face, but nodded in acquiescence. "I'm sorry, Sire," he said again.
Lord Isen waved him off and he left, hugging his arm and with the two soldiers as a friendly escort.
Meanwhile, Lord Isen came over to Merlin, who was still holding Romulus. He ran his hands over the horse, checking his legs for injury. When he straightened he turned to Merlin. "We meet again," he said. "Myrddin, wasn't it?"
Merlin nodded. "Yes, My Lord."
"Well, Myrddin. It looks like you've got yourself a job."
Next part
"Sire, My Lord, My Love." Merlin raised his hands and cupped Arthur's face between them. "There is some muttering about why you would go to war over the killing of a servant girl. They don't understand. But they will. In time. You know I would tell you, if anything I heard came close to actual treason."
Arthur's eyes narrowed as he assessed Merlin's words and Merlin withstood the glare. "You need to pinch the whispers in the bud," Merlin said. "The sooner the better, but certainly before we leave."
Arthur stepped away from him, over to the window, where he stood, gazing out into the night. "You're not coming," he said.
"Of course I am," Merlin protested. "You need me. Cenred's used magic in the past. What if he does so again?"
Arthur swung around to face him. "No, you're not," he said harshly. "And that's my final word. I can't afford to have you anywhere near the battle, when it comes."
The argument went on for over an hour and Merlin slept alone that night.
Arthur was gone when Merlin got up the next morning, so he went to see Gaius, until Gaius threw him out, and then to sit on the steps in the courtyard. Leaning back on his elbows, he stretched his legs out and tilted his face up to catch the warmth of the sun.
Movement next to him caused him squint one eye open and tilt his head to see who it was. Gwen settled herself next to him and put her sewing basket on the step below. She pulled out a neatly folded bundle of white cloth. Shaking it out, she held up a shift with white embroidery around the hem and neck. There was a tear in the side seam, which she set to mending, all without a word, or even a look.
Merlin opened both eyes. "What?" he asked.
Gwen smiled and shrugged. "It's a beautiful day and I have some mending to do."
"But that's not why you're here."
"He said 'no', didn't he?"
"And you've come to tell me to stop being stupid. That Arthur has a point and I'd undermine him, if I went."
"Actually, yes," Gwen agreed, finishing her locking stitch and starting to sew the torn seam, swiftly and neatly. "If the army knew Arthur had brought a sorcerer with him, they would never know if it was he who won the battle, or you."
"The army? Half the people I call friends don't know I'm a sorcerer."
"Not yet," Gwen agreed.
Merlin sighed. He gazed up at the sky and the light haze of feathery clouds. "It's all show, isn't it?" he said eventually. "All bluff and show."
She glanced at him and there was a hint of pity in the slight wrinkle of her brow. "Yes, it is," she said. She held up the shift to the light. "What do you think?" she asked, "Would this look better with some colour in the flowers around the neck?"
Merlin ignored her question. "What if," he suggested, "Merlin the magician stayed at home, locked in his room, seen only by Gwen, and a certain old soldier," at Gwen's sceptical look he amended that to, "or groom, happened to go with the army?"
Gwen smiled brightly. "I think you need to set up a workshop of your own in Gaius' tower," she said.
Preparations continued. Arthur made a rousing speech about treachery and people who betrayed their kin to treat with the enemy. Merlin forgave Arthur for his cruelty and admitted that he had a valid point about taking magic into his first battle as king. The lords and knights continued to occupy every spare bed in the town and, with the spring sowing finally over, more foot soldiers and bowmen arrived to take up whatever space was left, or to add their tents and bed rolls to the growing village of men camped out in the fallow fields behind the castle. Until, eventually, it was done. The stores were being loaded onto carts and the army was finally ready to move. On the night before their departure, Arthur took one final turn around the walls with Merlin at his side.
"Let me come," Merlin said, one last time. They were standing closely together in a secluded nook, overlooking the river.
"We've been over this. No." Arthur sighed. He gazed across the fields towards the south-east, the direction in which the army would march the next morning. "They don't know you. But more importantly, they don't know me."
"You've been leading the army for years."
"But always under my father's rule." He placed a gentle finger against Merlin's lips. "It's not just now," he said. "It's later, when I declare you my sorcerer. I can't take a sorcerer on my first campaign."
Merlin bowed his head. "I know," he agreed. Looking up he added, "But I don't have to like it."
Arthur laid both hands on Merlin's shoulders, leaned forward and kissed him. "Nor do I," he said. "I'll miss you."
"I won't watch you go." Merlin said. Arthur looked wounded. "Well, I might," he conceded. "But I won't come down and say goodbye."
Arthur's mouth twisted, but he nodded. "I know," he said. "But I will come back."
"You'd better. I'm not sure who I'd put on the throne in your place if you didn't. You're taking all the best candidates with you."
"I'd choose Gwen, if I were you."
Nodding, Merlin managed a smile. "Right," he agreed, "Gwen it is."
Whispering against Merlin's lips, Arthur said, "On the other hand, I could just come back."
Merlin leaned into the kiss, tilting his head to deepen it. When they drew apart, he murmured, "You do that."
The sun had risen, but had not reached the courtyard when Arthur walked down the steps with Leon, Lord Isen and Gwaine. Each was resplendent in their red cloaks, with their coats of arms on their breast - Arthur's dragon, Gwaine's gold pentangle, Lord Isen's stooping eagle and Leon with his red lion rampant on a white ground. "Three days," Leon was saying. It sounded like the end of a longer speech and he seemed to have no more to add. Arthur grunted in preoccupied agreement.
"Cedric Longstaff's men arrived in the middle of the night," said Lord Isen. "Half of them boys and the other half witless. I doubt there's a one of them can hold a pike without tripping over it."
"I'll put them with Dicken," Arthur said. "He can march them back and forth and bring them in at the end, to mop up the stragglers."
He paused on the bottom step and looked around at the activity in the courtyard. Gwaine sidled nearer and leaned closer still. "How did he take it?" he asked.
At that Arthur did laugh. "Not well," he said. "You know Merlin; he's convinced that only he can keep me safe. He gives me no credit."
Leon looked around. "Where is Merlin?" he asked.
"In his new workshop, I think." Arthur appeared unconcerned by Merlin's defection but Leon raised an eyebrow and Arthur laughed again. "He's sulking," he explained. "Where's that man of mine?" He caught the eye of a tall, gangly man with grey hair and a grizzled beard who was hovering near the foot of the steps and called out, "You there, who's your master?"
"I have no master, Sire," the man replied. "I came to fight for my king."
"And your name?"
"Myrddin, Sire."
A groom approached, leading a tall bay horse. Lord Isen bowed and left Arthur's side to go and meet him.
"Well, Myrddin," Arthur said, "you work for me now. Go and tell my groom to bring my horse."
"And mine too," Leon said. "The grey with the black socks."
Myrddin avoided Arthur's eyes as he bowed. He hefted his pack onto his back, turned on his heels and hurried away, putting a slight hitch in his gait, in case Arthur was watching. Lord Isen approached, leading the tall bay, and Myrddin dodged around them on his way to the stables.
Arthur's groom, Alwin, already had Bran saddled, but Leon's groom was nowhere to be seen. Myrddin delivered his message and asked if he should ready the grey.
"Aye, like enough you should," Alwin said. "Bowen's probably saying farewell to his missus and likely to be late back. Serve him right if he has to run to catch up." He looked Myrddin up and down. "You know your way around tack?"
Myrddin assured him that he did and went to work to prove it. He asked Alwin to point him out the knight's equipment and fetched it at once to Betsy's stall when Alwin did so.
The familiar stable smelt of warm horse and fresh hay. Myrddin offered Betsy his hand to sniff and she whinnied gently, butting his shoulder in greeting. Myrddin laughed, running a hand down her neck and whispering in her ear, "There's no fooling you, is there, lass? Let's hope your master and his friends are less observant."
Alwin watched with a critical eye until, apparently satisfied, he led Bran away leaving Myrddin to bring Betsy when he was done.
The stable boys had seen to the animals' feed and water. Betsy's coat shone from a recent grooming, so all Myrddyn had to do was lead her out of her stall and fit her out. She stood patiently while he hurried to complete his task. As a masterless man, his chance of getting close to the king during the campaign would depend upon him winning the favour of one of the king's friends.
He needn't have hurried, as he discovered when he brought Betsy out into the courtyard. Alwin and Bran were still waiting by the steps, while Arthur and Leon wandered between the carts and wagons with the wagon master.
Keeping an eye out for Bowen, Myrddin chatted with Betsy until she was claimed by Leon. Leon threw him a silver ha'penny and a word of thanks once he was mounted, but nothing more and Myrddin stepped back to watch Arthur clatter out through the gate with his knights behind him and his banners flying.
The sun was still below the tops of the walls and the air in the courtyard was chill, with the still, damp cold unique to an early summer morning. Myrddin shivered and pulled his jacket close across his thin chest.
A movement caught at the corner of his eye and Gwen appeared at his side with a basket hanging from the crook of her arm. She looked up at him, coughed politely and hesitantly asked, "Merlin?"
Turning to face her, Myrddin swept her a bow. "My name is indeed Myrddin, My Lady," he replied. "How may I serve you?"
She backed away. "Oh, umm... No. My mistake. I thought, I mean..."
He interrupted her. "Gwen, Gwen, no, I'm sorry. It is me."
Stopping, she glared at him and he hung his head, shuffling his feet in a show of contrition that caused a choke of laughter to escape her. "I've brought you a pasty," she said. "Since I doubt you've had time to pack much." Drawing aside the cloth covering her basket, she showed him its contents. "And a long scarf, a bag of oats and a couple of loaves."
"A scarf?"
"A silk scarf. Here, take it. My lady will never need it again." He took it from her and slung it around his neck.
Clasping both her hands in his, he said, "Thank you. For everything." She nodded mistily up at him. "You'll look after Gaius for me?" he asked and she nodded again, more firmly.
"Of course I will," she said. "And you'll take care of yourself?"
"And Arthur."
She gave his hands a little shake and, with a sly grin, said, "Yes, well, I didn't think I needed to ask you to do that; you'll do it anyway." Pulling her hands free, she started to pass him things from her basket.
Shoving the pasty in his pocket, Merlin swung his pack from his shoulder. Crouching down, he opened it and laid his blanket carefully aside, to put the bread and bag of oats inside. He put the blanket on top, pulled the flap over as far as it would go and fastened the buckles to hold it all in place. "I think I have all I need," he said. "A knife, flask, bowl and spoon, medicines from Gaius and a change of clothes." He grinned up at her. "And now I have food, too."
With a flourish Gwen pulled a broad brimmed leather hat out of her basket, un-rolled it and set it on his head. "Now you have everything," she agreed.
It took the better part of the morning to get the last of the wagons loaded and teams of oxen hitched to them. The wagon master bustled from place to place, directing wagons that were ready to form up in the column on the road outside the gates and shouting at his assistants to find so-and-so or whosit and tell them to get their arses into line.
He never stayed still for long enough for Merlin to catch his attention and get an official job, so, while he waited, Merlin helped load a large, four wheeled wagon with crates of arrows.
It was heavy work and the long crates were awkward to load. Merlin dragged them over to the wagon, one at a time, tipped them up on end and then lifted them, sliding them over the tailgate. A young lad, who introduced himself over the third crate as Martin, hauled them up onto the wagon and into place.
Merlin had just hoisted the last crate up to Martin, perched high above the ground, on top of the pile, when the wagon master paused by his side. "Cats!" he exclaimed. "It's like herding bloody cats. How many crates have you there?"
"Forty two," Merlin replied, adding, "Excuse me, sir?" The wagon master looked up from his list, preoccupied and harried. Merlin said, "I'm a groom, if you have a job for me?"
The wagon master cast a quick glance around the courtyard, as if he could conjure a suitable job from thin air. "What you're doing there," he said, "That looks useful."
"Oh, right, so I'll just keep doing this then?"
"That's the idea," he replied, and with a muttered, "Where's that blasted Alfred?" hurried away, leaving Merlin to assume he was now an official member of the wagon train.
The reality of travelling with an army on the march was nothing like Merlin had expected. The front rank of knights on their proud steeds, grouped around and following their king, had indeed been a brave sight in their shining armour, with flying cloaks and pennants, but once they were gone, Merlin saw nothing more of them and little enough of the rest of the army. His fate lay with the supply wagons and camp followers who trailed as an unruly mob at the rear.
At first it was an adventure. There was pride, even for the supply train, in the slow procession down from the castle to the town gates. The people who had cheered the king on his way had mostly dispersed and gone back to their everyday concerns, but even so, many waved and called out wishes of good luck as the wagons passed.
Once beyond the gates, the old Roman road to the south-east sloped up, away from the river towards the woods. As they crossed the open ground, the sun beat down on them, but the air was fresh compared to the closeness of the town. The blossom had been brilliant all spring, after the long, cold winter of Uther's final illness and death, and every flowering tree and bush was loaded down with the promises of a good harvest in the autumn. The occasional wafts of scent from may and briar growing along the verge was almost overpowering. Slowly, they slogged up the hill and when they finally entered the shade of the forest, the relative cool was welcome.
So close to Camelot, the old road was well maintained and the trees kept clear from encroaching, so although the hill got steeper, the going was relatively easy. At the top of the first rise and just before they started their descent into the valley beyond, Merlin paused and looked back. Camelot's white ramparts towered amid the treetops, just as they had the first time he saw them, five years before and, just as on that day, they were awe inspiring - glowing in the early summer sun.
Merlin's inexperience of war and its petty politics meant that he hadn't thought to angle his way into working any of the first wagons in the line and when he tried to get a job with the wagon he had helped load, he was rudely told that his services were no longer required. He ended up leading the team of oxen hauling almost the last cart in the train and as the day progressed, it was clear why the job had been vacant up until the moment of departure. He walked surrounded by and breathing in the dust raised by the wagons and pack animals ahead of him. Pulling Gwen's long scarf up, he wrapped it around his lower face.
Progress was slow and beyond the village of Greater Daunston the road deteriorated. There was not a whiff of a breeze and the air was heavy with a promise of rain that failed to arrive. Merlin took small mouthfuls of water from his flask to clear his throat of dust and was grateful every time they neared a stream and he was able to refill it. There were frequent delays when a poorly constructed cart tipped and shed its load, or simply got stuck in a rut, blocking the road and forcing all behind to halt. Even after the blockage was cleared, one way or another, it seemed to take forever to get the column moving again.
By the time they paused for the midday rest, a blister had formed on Merlin's heel and he broke into his supply of salves and bandages to wrap it. If he could have ridden with the drover he would have, but the team of four oxen apparently needed a man at their head if they were to follow the cart in front. Merlin had doubted this, but it was true that when he left them, to fill his flask from the streams they passed, the cart soon lumbered to a halt or threatened to wander off the road entirely.
They cleared the forest in the early afternoon and a couple of hours later they re-joined the River Cama, where it wound its way across the southern lowlands. The country appeared, at first sight, to be peaceful and prosperous. In the meadows around Allingham the grass was tall and dotted with wild flowers. Within a few weeks it would be ready for the haymaking. But beyond the obvious fertility, there were still signs of the ravages wrought by Cenred's invasion two years before.
As a major fording place over the river, the small town of Allingham had been largely rebuilt, but in the late afternoon they trailed through the village of Ashtonbury, where it was clear the locals were still working to regain their previous prosperity. The inhabitants watched with fearful eyes as the army marched past.
From among a group of silently watching women, a child cried out and was hushed. A man, old before his time, limped out on crutches from behind a cottage with only half a roof. His right leg ended in a stump at the knee. Merlin did not need to see the druidic symbols painted discretely on the nearest lintels to know that without illicit, healing magic, the toll of that invasion would have been far greater. He took a firmer grip on the rope he held, as he led his team out of the village.
There were towns and villages like Allingham and Ashtonbury across the south-east of the kingdom, places that had stood in the way of the Escetian horde.
Beyond Ashtonbury there was another ridge of hills to climb, but this stretch of the Roman road had survived the passing of the years in moderately good condition. Although it was overgrown, there were places in the twin tracks worn by cart wheels where stretches of the original Roman pavement could be seen. For the next couple of hours the column made relatively good speed. The road also offered wide grass verges where the strings of pack ponies could find better footing, allowing the carts and wagons to draw closer together.
The sun sank towards the distant Mountains of Isgard in the south-west and as sunset approached, the end of the wagon train crested a rise. Below them lay the valley of the River Dorn and on the river's banks, among a broad scattering of trees at the edge of a denser forest, were the dotted fires that marked the army's first camp.
One of the wagon master's assistants met them, walking down the column and issuing directions to where they should lay up. Merlin and his team were pointed at a space just off the road, some distance from the river and given instructions for the path to follow to take the animals down to be watered.
Between them, and mostly through Merlin's persuasive powers with dumb animals, Merlin and the drover positioned their wagon and unhitched the team. In spite of a day working for him, Merlin had not learned his name and nor had he asked Merlin's. "I suppose I'll see you back here tomorrow," he said, making it not quite a question. Merlin nodded. He nodded back and led his oxen south, to the path that would take them around the edge of the camp.
Merlin was left to look around and consider the options of trying to light a fire of his own, or seeing if he could get an invitation to join someone else's. He limped slowly away from the road.
Dusk was finally falling and it was darker among the trees. It was impossible to judge the layout of the camp, or see where the tents of the nobility and gentry were pitched. The fires of the common soldiers were dotted widely across the ground, flickering as shadows moved in front of them. Merlin's stomach rumbled, reminding him he'd had nothing to eat since breakfast with Arthur, other than the pasty Gwen had pressed on him.
His second option seemed the most attractive, particularly since the chances were that every scrap of useful firewood had already being claimed.
A few yards away a group of five women were gathered around a large pot over a well-established fire and, judging by the smell, had been cooking for some time. He hitched his pack higher on his shoulder and went over.
His offer to contribute fresh baked bread bought him a place to sit and he pulled his boots off, stretching his feet out blissfully. After a number of men-at-arms had trickled in, singly and in pairs, he also got a share of the hen stew in the pot.
They were twelve in total, by the time the stew was served, and it was clear that there were established partnerships in place, with most of the women settling immediately next to one of the men, amid much laughter and many coarse jokes. Merlin dunked his crust of bread into his bowl and ate.
One of the younger men wondered aloud about where they were headed.
An older hand laughed at him, telling him to get used to it because the poor bloody infantry were never told anything. "We just march 'til we get where we're going," he said. "Then they point us at the enemy and tell us to fight."
The woman who was handing out the bowls of stew paused at his side and gave him a good natured shove in the shoulder. "But you know where we are, don't you?" she asked.
The man grinned up at her. "'Course I do! A good soldier always knows what their high and mightinesses are planning. Usually before they do themselves." He looked around the group, obviously enjoying his position as elder statesman. "We're heading south-east, aren't we? Crossed the Cama, then cut across to here, to the Dorn. The Dorn flows into the Cama down that way." He jerked his head in a westerly direction. "But we're headed that way," he pointed south-east, "to the Bridewell and up towards Compton. That's where Broga's gone to ground. His place at Garsbury's up past there."
"Are we headed for a siege then?" the young man asked. He sounded disgusted by the idea and that was understandable, since he probably had fields and animals that needed him at home.
Merlin bit his tongue to remind himself to keep quiet. He didn't have to resist the urge to speak for long; the old soldier was ready enough with his reply. "Nah," he said scornfully. "Word is we're going to meet in Freydale, on the main road to the eastern sea." He nodded his head importantly. "Old Broga won't want us taking the main trade route to Gaul. 'Cause that's what the Freyl is. You mark my words; he'll come out of his hole to stop us stealing that from him."
The woman with the ladle laughed. "How'd you know all this stuff, Alf?" she asked.
Alf tapped one dirty forefinger finger against the side of his nose, saying mysteriously. "I just does. And I'm not telling. If I told you how I knew stuff, you'd be off finding out for yourself and then I'd starve, wouldn't I?"
Amid the general laughter that provoked, one of the other women started handing out leather tankards and the subject was dropped. Merlin accepted his tankard with a smile of thanks. He almost choked when he took a swig and found that it contained rough spirit, rather than the small beer he'd expected. He put it down carefully on the grass next to his knee.
The woman who had been serving the stew came over and sat beside him with her own supper. He smiled at her and said, "Thank you for this," lifting his bowl in salute.
"You brought the bread," she replied. She looked him up and down. "Not used to the rear, ducks?" she asked. "Not a bowman. Not got the shoulders for it. Foot soldier?"
Merlin laughed. "Groom," he admitted.
"Oh, hoity-toity." There was no malice in her taunt, but it was apparent that she assumed he was putting on airs. It seemed there was a hierarchy on the march that Merlin had never been aware of in the castle. The woman pulled a face and nodded sympathetically. "Lost your master, did you?" She didn't wait for him to respond, nudging him with her shoulder and saying, "Saw you with Gilbert Drover. He's a good enough sort, if a bit soft in the head. Can't drive to the worth of a pinch of salt, but cares for his animals. You can make a good living if you fall in with a man of property, like. He's got a good team there and another at home, I hear, ready to drop a calf. Make yourself useful and you'll be set."
He smiled and nodded at the flood of information. The woman gave him another nudge. "I'm newly widowed, myself."
"Do you, um, do you want me to introduce you to Gilbert?" he asked.
She shook her head, laughing. "Nah, he could get anyone, him. A widow with a nice, snug inn, or a shopkeeper. He wouldn't look twice at the likes of me." She placed a hand on his thigh and edged a little closer, saying, "But you're a handsome fellow."
Merlin placed his bowl down next to his pack and edged away, removing his leg from under her hand. "Um, no, thank you," he said "I'm spoken for."
The woman leant close to his ear, although she kept her hands to herself. "Shame. But she's not here, now is she? No harm in what she never knows."
Merlin edged again and his hand landed in a wet patch of what he hoped was mud. He wiped it clean on the grass and clambered to his feet, stepping back a few paces as he did so.
"Um... I, I just have to..." he waved his arm vaguely to his right. "So I'll just.." He took a breath and started again. "Good luck to you, My Lady," he said, and gave her a courtly bow, which made her laugh again.
"Lady?" she asked. "Bless you, you're as bashful as a virgin boy." She tilted her head and watched him as he gathered his bowl, boots and pack. "You be off then," she said.
He hesitated. "Will you be all right?"
She shrugged. "Don't you fear for me; I'll find someone to keep me warm. You go find your cold bed and much good may it do you. Take care not to freeze to death." Her words were harsh, but there was no resentment in her voice at his unwillingness to be her latest conquest. He bowed again, more moderately, and hurried away. When he looked back, just before he rounded the tail end of a supply wagon, she had already moved across to the other side of the fire and was talking to one of the men at arms.
Merlin settled himself on the ground against the wheel of the cart to finish his stew, then dug into his pack for more salve and bandages. Once he had bound up his blistered feet, he packed his supplies away, pulled his boots back on and hauled himself up to go and explore.
On first inspection, the camp appeared disorganised, with small groups gathered around fires, wherever they willed. It was not until Merlin had almost circumnavigated it, that he realised the baggage train was still at the rear, the knights were in the middle with the archers and foot soldiers in a great arc around them.
He made his way towards where he could see a large group of tents pitched in a clearing at the centre of the camp and, dodging a sentry, ducked between them.
Carefully picking his way over the stays that covered the ground like tripwires, ready to send any late-night wanderer sprawling, he wove his way into the middle of the group. After about ten minutes of careful progress, he spotted Arthur's distinctive striped tent next to a clear space where a dozen or so war horses were tethered to a long picket line.
Skirting the open area, he circled until he reached Arthur's tent. There was no sound from inside. He paused in the narrow gap between it and its next neighbour. Across from him he could see the line of horses. Bran was tethered towards one end, with a bowl of what was probably mixed oats and bran, a bucket of water and a pile of hay at his head. A couple of small wagons were pulled up nearby.
As Merlin hesitated, on the brink of stepping out of his hiding place, Arthur and Lancelot came into view and walked across the opening a mere six feet in front of him. Although they never glanced in his direction, he instinctively drew further back into the shadows between the tents.
In the still of the evening he could hear their conversation clearly. Arthur was speaking. "They'll have scouts out. At least, Cenred will. He's not going to sit and wait for us to appear on his doorstep."
"But not this far beyond Broga's lands, surely?" Lancelot asked.
"No, tonight we're safe enough. And probably tomorrow, on the march. But once we cross the Bridewell, we'll have to deploy our own scouts further ahead."
Arthur ducked his head and entered his tent with Lancelot on his heels, after which Merlin couldn't hear their words, only the rise and fall of their voices.
He settled himself on the ground and waited. Other knights arrived, in ones and twos. They all entered the tent and through the canvas wall he could hear the soft hum of conversation. The occasional word came through to him clearly, but never enough to make sense of. Eventually there was a burst of laughter and a loud call for someone to pour wine. Merlin got to his feet and peered out from his hiding place.
The coast was clear. Leaving his pack where it was, he went over to Bran. "Hey, boy," he whispered, holding out his hand for Bran to sniff and stroking his nose when he whinnied and nudged at Merlin's chest in recognition. "How are you? Missing Tageth, huh? Don't worry; you'll soon be back with her in your nice warm stable. This war won't last long. No siege to worry about. Arthur said so, so you know it must be true."
Bran butted his chest again and he took that for agreement. "Anyone else here I should say hello to?" he asked, looking down the line.
He spotted Leon's grey Betsy and was about to go over to greet her, when a hand clapped him on the shoulder. "Get away from here, you," ordered a voice. The hand tugged him back and whirled him around. Luc of Shernston, one of the corporals of the guard, loomed in front of him. He reeked of rough spirits and he seemed to have spilt a quantity down the front of his jerkin. He swayed slightly on his feet, but his eyes were fixed steadily enough on Merlin's face. "What're you doing with the King's horse?" he demanded.
"I was just saying hello," Merlin said. He held up his hands. "I met him before, at Camelot, I saw him-"
The rest of what he was going to say was cut off by Luc's fist landing in his face. He staggered backwards and fell to the ground. "Hey!" he yelped and rolled onto his back. He raised one hand to his cheek and pulled it away. In the dim light he couldn't see much but there didn't appear to be any blood.
"Come on," Luc said. "Get up."
Merlin stayed where he was. "I wasn't doing anything," he protested, surprised because Luc had never struck him as a violent man.
"You were interfering with the King's horse. When I find that Alwin, I'll give him a hiding for leaving the King's mount unattended. But meantime, you're coming with me to see the sergeant." He came forward, apparently intent on dragging Merlin to his feet. Merlin rolled onto his shoulders before Luc got too close, gathered his knees to his chest and kicked out, catching Luc in the gut and on the thigh.
Luc staggered back a pace but he didn't fall. He gave a growl, shouted, "Guards!" and dived for Merlin.
Merlin rolled to the side and kept rolling, while Luc landed in an ungainly heap where Merlin had been and scrambled after him on all fours. Luc was a bigger man but he was older, and slower as a result. He also seemed to have underestimated Merlin's speed because of Merlin's apparent greater age.
Merlin managed to get to his feet and backed away before Luc reached him. Rapidly he assessed his position in relation to Arthur's tent and his own abandoned pack. Luc levered himself up off the ground and charged. Merlin twisted left and got behind one of the poles that supported the picket line, while Luc staggered past. It would have been easy to jump out and tackle him to the ground, but Luc had more than twenty pounds on him and Arthur's lessons had always emphasised the stupidity of Merlin getting too close to a heavier opponent. Instead, he turned and ducked under the picket line.
Taking care to stay out of range of potential rear kicks, Merlin ran up the line, with Luc in belated pursuit. He got to the end, swung around the end pole and set off back down the other side towards Arthur's tent. He was more than half way there when the flap of the tent was pushed open and a man stepped out, calling over his shoulder, "I won't be long, hold my throw," before walking around behind one of the carts, not noticing the minor drama unfolding across the clearing.
Merlin raised his hand with his fingers spread wide and turned to see where Luc was. He intending to throw Luc onto his back for long enough for him to dodge between the tents, snatch up his pack and high-tail it away to the far side of the camp, but Luc was too close and he had to duck under a swing from Luc's powerful right arm. He twisted away and ran back up the line. Betsey had turned, as if to watch, and was almost facing him. He approached and petted her briefly before clambering back over the picket line, to the other side. He couldn't see Luc and keeping low he made his way down the line, towards his pack.
He had reached the end again when Luc reappeared, looming out of the darkness on his right. Merlin turned to face him and raised his hand, but realised he was now too close to the wagon where the knight had gone to take a leak. With one of Arthur's knights so near, he hesitated. Luc swung on the balls of his feet and his right fist caught Merlin on the shoulder, although without much force. Merlin jumped back, intent on running again.
A hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck before he could take a step. "What's this?" Lord Isen asked, still doing up his breeches with his other hand. "What's going on?"
Luc staggered to a halt, his eyes widening. Aborting his next swing, he brought both hands to his sides and stood up straight. "I caught him lurking about, Sire, like he was trying to listen to your planning."
Lord Isen laughed. "Much good it would do him, when the plans go no further than the next roll of the dice." He released Merlin, who stepped back a pace, out of range of being grabbed again by either Lord Isen, or Luc. Lord Isen looked him up and down. "What have you to say for yourself, Sirrah?" he asked. "Were you trying to spy upon your king?"
"No, My Lord. I... I was... I mean..."
Lord Isen's eyes crinkled in the face of Merlin's stuttering attempts to explain himself.
"He was interfering with the King's horse, My Lord," Luc said. "I was teaching him a lesson."
Lord Isen looked right and left, as if assessing the distance between where Bran was tethered and Arthur's tent. "Interfering?"
Merlin snorted indignantly and explained, "I was just saying hello."
With a small nod, Lord Isen said thoughtfully, "I remember you." Turning, he gave Luc the same thorough inspection he had given Merlin. He stepped closer. Luc held his ground and straightened further. Lord Isen took a deep breath and scrunched his face in disgust. "This man is one of the king's grooms," he said.
"He what?" Luc made a visible effort to moderate his tone. "Begging your pardon, My Lord, but I've been corporal of the guard at Camelot for more than six years and I never saw him before today."
"You may beg my pardon," Lord Isen replied, "but I see no reason why I should grant it."
Luc scowled and adjusted his belt. He opened his mouth, closed it again and apparently recognised that he could not win an argument and there was no point in trying. He shuffled his feet, muttering, "Well he should have said so,"
Lord Isen's lips twisted into a sneer. "I'm sure he did." He made a show of inspecting Luc from toe to the top, again. "Why are you still here?" he asked.
Watching Luc leave, Lord Isen shook his head, a slight smile on his lips, but when he turned to Merlin his face was immediately sober. "You're not the King's groom," he said. "And the gods know why I just put my reputation on the line to save you the thrashing you probably deserve."
"I wasn't doing any harm," Merlin protested again. "I was just talking to Bran. And I don't know why you interfered, either. Do you realise I'm going to have to spend the rest of this campaign looking over my shoulder, because of what you just did? Luc can hold a grudge and even drunk he won't forget that you dressed him down. It's me he'll blame."
"Ungrateful too, I see." Lord Isen studied Merlin. "There's something about you..." he said, "but I can't -"
A hand landing on his shoulder. "What have we here?" Arthur asked. "A spy?"
Merlin glared. "No, you... I, I mean, no, Sire. I'm no spy."
Arthur glanced at him and dismissed him. He looked at Lord Isen. "They're getting impatient in there. Deal with this and go take your turn. Poor Gwaine has his fortune resting on your throw." He gave Merlin a second, brief glance. "If I get back before you, I'll tell them you'll be with us shortly," he said, turning away. Merlin watched him until he too rounded the end of the cart that seemed to have been designated as the communal latrine.
Reclaiming Merlin's attention, Lord Isen asked, "Myrddin, isn't it?"
It sounded rhetorical, but Merlin answered anyway. "Er... yes. Yes, it is. I mean, I am."
"You seem very familiar with the horses and characters of the castle, for a man who is new to town. Why are you here?"
"Here, as in talking to Bran?" Lord Isen nodded. "Umm, well, he's a beautiful horse, Sire. I, I fell in love? This morning, when I fetched him and Le- the other knight's mount."
"Hmm." Lord Isen still sounded dubious, but all he said was, "If I discover anything has gone amiss with Bran, I will find you and I will gut you. You understand?"
"Yes, My Lord."
"Right. Off with you, then." He stepped back, signalling the end of the interview. "And don't let me see you causing trouble in future, or-"
"You'll gut me, Sire. Yes, I got it. Umm ... thank you?"
Lord Isen turned, walked across to Arthur's tent and ducked inside, leaving Merlin to retrieve his pack. As he bent down to pick it up, he heard a burst of laughter and Gwaine's voice raised in protest. He didn't stay to hear more.
Deciding that having been named groom to the king before a witness was good enough to make it true, Merlin explored the immediate area and laid out his sleeping roll under a small, two wheeled wagon parked close to the horses, at the far end of the line from Arthur's tent. Thanking his luck in finding one that was not already occupied, he spread out his blanket between the wheels.
As he was getting himself settled, he was aware of men walking past, laughing. He recognised Leon's voice jokingly lamenting Gwaine's poor luck, while Gwaine tried to defend himself against the charge. Nearby a dog barked, setting off others, until someone screamed at them and quiet returned. The duty guard patrolled the camp, a pair of legs in stout boots passing by within three feet of Merlin's head. Under the shelter of a large tree, a single glowing spot marked where the cook fire had not been properly damped down for the night. Merlin curled up and pulled the other half of his blanket over himself.
It rained in the early hours and the water found its way through the cracks in the baseboard of the wagon under which Merlin was huddled. His blanket was soon soaked and the cold damp brought him unpleasantly awake. Crawling out into a dismal morning, he packed his wet blanket away in his pack, crammed his hat on his head and set about the spare tasks of fetching and carrying that always accompanied an overnight encampment, taking care not to infringe on any of the duties of the actual grooms. The important thing was for the cook, occupied with reviving the fire, to see him busy.
It continued to drizzle on and off for the next two hours and he was glad of Gwen's hat, pulling it down over his ears so the brim didn't send the water down the inside of his collar. Food did something to warm him; the small boys who acted as the cook's assistants delivered oaten cakes to the grooms, and to Merlin, while the porridge cooked. Hot food did more; as soon as he judged there was nothing else he could do, without poaching on someone else's duties, he made his way over to the fire.
He was shovelling porridge into his mouth and making friends with Dillon, the cook, when Alwin returned from delivering Arthur's breakfast. Coming over, he stood next to Merlin and received his own bowl of porridge from Dillon's boy.
They ate in silence, Alwin's presence apparently enough to still even Dillon's flood of easy gossip.
Alwin was a taciturn man, but Merlin had always judged him to be fair. He had certainly been so in the past, when Arthur sent Merlin down to muck out the stables as punishment for some perceived dereliction or inattention. Eventually, after he had scraped up the last of his porridge and handed the bowl back to the boy, he turned to Merlin and asked, "Looking for a job, are you?"
"Are you looking for some help?" Merlin asked in reply.
Alwin stared at him. "No," he said baldly and walked away.
The rain had stopped while they ate, the sun had broken through the heavy clouds and the air felt crisper. Merlin paused to have a last word with Betsy and Bran, on his way to re-join Gilbert Drover. He was whispering instructions to Bran, to take care of Arthur, when an equine scream of distress jerked his head around. A groom, who had been leading a tall bay out of the line, was now fighting it for control, while its forelegs thrashed in the air above his head.
Leaving Bran, Merlin ran over to help, but before he could reach the pair there was an audible thump, the man cried out and fell. The stallion spun on his haunches, his forelegs hit the ground and Merlin was standing squarely in his path. Other men were rushing towards them and two soldiers reached the groom, dragging him clear. Merlin jumped for the horse's reins and, more by luck than judgement, managed to catch them. The stallion threatened to rear again and Merlin hauled down with all his weight, telling him to behave himself and stop playing the fool. Amazingly, he did as he was told and Merlin brought him to a stand, away from the line and well clear of the groom, who was now sitting on the ground supported by one soldier while the other examined his arm. The groom leaned back into his rescuer's hold with gritted teeth and the occasional gasp as the soldier moved his arm across his chest.
Seeing that the human was being cared for, Merlin concentrated on soothing the bay who was still restive and shaking his head. He held onto the reins near the bit and reached up to run his hands down the horse's neck.
A commanding voice demanded, "What's going on here?"
Answering that question twice in twelve hours was more than was required of him, so Merlin stayed mum with his head and eyes down while Arthur strode towards the group gathered around the groom. Once Arthur had passed, however, he shifted his position so he could watch.
One of the soldiers stood at Arthur's approach. "He's broken his arm, Sire," he reported.
Arthur looked down at the groom, who was hugging his injured arm to his chest. With the help of the other soldier he struggled to his feet. Bowing awkwardly, he said, "I'm sorry to disturb you, Sire. It was a wasp. At first, Romulus was just a bit skittish when it came near. Then he went crazy."
Merlin turned his face into the stallion's neck. "Romulus is it?" he asked. "Well, Rom, are you going to be good now?"
Romulus shook his head and nudged at Merlin.
Meanwhile, Arthur was examining the groom's arm for himself, without touching it. "Get yourself to the sawbones," he said, "and see if he can set that for you. If he can't, you should be able to make Camelot by evening. Gaius will sort you out."
"But, Romulus, My Lord?"
Arthur looked beyond the man's shoulder. "Isen," he called. "It's Hugh. I've offered Gaius' services, if he can get to him. He's your man."
Lord Isen had just emerged from one of the tents and at Arthur's summons he approached. He examined Hugh's arm for himself and, although he appeared to be taking care, Hugh flinched at his touch. Lord Isen grimaced and shook his head. "Go and get it seen to," he said. "I don't care if it can be set or not. Take Ned, he's a gentle ride, and let Gaius see to it, before nightfall, understand? I'll manage, and so will Rom, but you won't. Not without treatment."
Hugh pulled a face, but nodded in acquiescence. "I'm sorry, Sire," he said again.
Lord Isen waved him off and he left, hugging his arm and with the two soldiers as a friendly escort.
Meanwhile, Lord Isen came over to Merlin, who was still holding Romulus. He ran his hands over the horse, checking his legs for injury. When he straightened he turned to Merlin. "We meet again," he said. "Myrddin, wasn't it?"
Merlin nodded. "Yes, My Lord."
"Well, Myrddin. It looks like you've got yourself a job."
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