Emperor. Founder of the Beautiful City. And now a god, like Julius Caesar, like Arthur King of Britain. Hywel would run his fingers in the carved letters of the name when he passed the marker, touching the figure of the god.

Three years ago, on the May kalend, he had stunned a sparrow with a sling pellet, bound its wings, and taken it to the milestone. It had trembled within his shirt, and then, when he set it down, become curiously still, as if waiting. But Hywel had had no knife, and was afraid to use his naked hands. By the time he had found two flat stones and done the thing, he could no longer remember his intended prayer.

Now, clouds drifted across the low sun, making shadow patterns on the ground. The river dulled to slate, then flashed blue-silver. The standing stones seemed to move, to march, beat spears on shields in salute. Sparrows were forgotten as Hywel moved his cohorts, as soldier and king and god.

Until dust rose, and men moved crosswise to the dream, light flashing on steel: real soldiers, on the road to the inn. Hywel watched and listened, knowing that if he were quite still they could not detect him. He heard the scrape of pikes on the paving stones, the stamp of booted feet, chains dragging. He let the breeze bring him their voices, not distinguishable words but rhythms: English voices, not Welsh. As they turned the last bend in the road, Hywel's eyes picked out the badge they wore. Then he turned and ran lightly to the gate of The White Hart. As he crossed the innyard, a dog sniffed and raised its head for a pat that was not coming; sparrows fluttered up from the eaves.

The cruck-beamed serving hall was dim with afternoon. A little peat smoke hung in the air. Dafydd, the innkeeper, was working at the fire while Glynis, the pretty barmaid, wiped mugs. Both looked up, Glynis smiling, Dafydd not. "Well, my lord of the north, come in, do! While you've been with your councillors, this fire nearly—"

"Soldiers on the road," Hywel said, in Welsh. "My lord of Ireland's men, from Caernarfon." He knew Dafydd's anger was only mocking; when the innkeeper was truly angry he became deadly quiet and small-spoken.

"Well, then," said Dafydd, "they'll be wanting ale. Go you and draw a kettleful."

Hywel, grinning, said "And shall I fetch some butter?"

The innkeeper smiled back. "We've none that rancid. Now draw you the ale; they'll not care to wait."

"Ie."

"And speak English when the soldiers can hear you."

"Ie."

"And give yourself a whipping, lad—I haven't time!"

Hywel paused at the top of the cellar stairs. "There's a prisoner with them. A wizard."

Dafydd put the poker down, wiped his hands on his apron. "Well then," he said quietly, "that's bad news for someone."

Hywel nodded without understanding and clumped downstairs. He drew the ale into a black iron kettle, put it on the lift and hoisted it up; and only then, standing in the quiet cellar, did he realize just what he'd said. He had heard the chains, right enough, but never once seen what was in them.

 

 

Eight men, and something else, stood in the innyard.

The men wore leather jackets, carried swords and pole axes; two had longbows across their backs. One, helmeted and officious, had a long leather pouch at his side, and a baldric from which little wooden bottles hung on strings.