Page 48 of The Dragon Ring
Merlin saw him and stopped laughing, straightening up and stepping away from me. Arthur’s eyes slid from me to him, and then back to me. I composed myself and smoothed down my gown with slightly unsteady hands. It had done me good to laugh. God knows, I hadn’t felt like doing so for what seemed a very long time. Nevertheless, this was an awkward moment.
Lucretia broke the silence as she came in, the sound of her wheezing arriving ahead of her. She’d put on a voluminous and not very clean apron, and was carrying a tray of steaming pies. “All worked up an appetite, have you?” she called as she set her tray down on the plank bar. “Get ’em all jugs of our finest cider, Morgan, you lazy good-for-nothing. Right now, not tomorrow. Chop-chop.”
Morgan was galvanized into action, filling his supposedly clean tankards with cider and setting them on the bar. Arthur picked one up and took a long pull on it. I hoped it wasn’t the one Morgan had spat in.
“What was so funny?” he asked Merlin.
Merlin gave a shrug. “Nothing. That’s why we were laughing. Nothing was funny at all.”
Arthur looked puzzled and slightly annoyed. Did he think we’d been laughing at him?
“The thing that wasn’t funny,” I explained, “was that while you lot were in the bath house gettingmassages,I was stuck with two buckets of tepid water and a stinky old hag.”
Theodoric came breezing in. Catching the end of my words, he gave a great guffaw. “Best be careful what you say. That stinky old hag is Lucretia’s mother. It’s very much a family business here. Maeve and Tegan are her daughters.”
Were they? I was astonished. “They’re not very alike.”
He grinned, showing his large teeth, which gave him a distinctly wolfish air. “Different fathers, that’s why. I don’t believe Lucretia could tell you who their fathers were. There’s never been a husband in her life, and she’s free with her favors. She’s over forty now, but she’s still got her teeth and she’s hotter in bed than any of her girls in the bath house. And I should know.”
What? Too much information.
“Maeve looks like she could be yours,” Bedwyr remarked. “She’s got your yellow hair. Or I suppose she could be the get of a Saxon. Your doxy’s not fussy who she opens her legs to.”
Theodoric amiably shook his head. “Maeve’s too old to be mine. I’ve only known Lucretia these last five years. But that blonde babe she was nursing last year, he could be mine. I’ll not deny it.”
Lucretia was organizing the tables. “Nonsense,” she said briskly, overhearing Theodoric. “That babe could be anyone’s. I’m not saying it’s not yours, but you weren’t even my only client that night.”
“Has it got a moustache yet?” asked the wiry little flute player from the night before. “He marks his get with a big droopy one like his own.”
That made everyone laugh.
Arthur took my arm. “Come and sit down.”
Considering what he’d just been up to, this was a bit rich. I wrenched my arm free but went with him anyway.
The meal was served by Maeve and a boy with a harelip, whom I presumed must be another of Lucretia’s relatives. The pies were crispy pastry filled with chunks of meat in a rich gravy. When the boy set a whole one in front of me, I was sure I couldn’t eat all of it, but it was so good, and I was so hungry I managed the whole thing. We ate with our fingers, wiping the gravy off our mouths with our sleeves and washing the pies down with flagons of cider. It was one of the best meals I’d ever had.
When the food was finished, I thought we’d be going to bed, but several of the men started to call for music.
“Give us a song, Gwalchmei.”
“Get your flute out.”
“Play us a sad song.”
Gwalchmei got up from his seat and went and stood in front of the fire.
His audience fell silent expectantly. He put his flute to his lips, and the smoky air filled with music. A mournful melody rose toward the rafters in coils of twisting sound. I sat back a little, letting the beautiful notes filter into my mind. It seemed appropriate not to play a happy tune when we were on such a sad journey. Nobody spoke. Even the old man stopped hawking and spitting into the fire and turned blind eyes toward Gwalchmei, a sad smile hovering on his thin lips.
It was magical. Inside my head the music conjured tall, snow-capped mountains and deep, dark lakes, thick forests beneath a night sky, and wolves howling on a ridge. A river ran through a rocky gorge, tumbling over piled rocks, the sound of its passing mingling with the music of the flute. I felt tears sting my eyes and a solid lump in my chest that wouldn’t go away.
At last, the music ended, and Gwalchmei sat for a moment or two, the flute silent in his hands, head bowed. Nobody moved. Not even the dog that had eaten Ratty’s finger stirred in the straw beneath his table.
Chapter Thirteen
The next daywe set off westwards along the graveled Roman road historians would come to know as Watling Street, but, to Arthur and his men, was simply the Viroconium Road. The weather held, with a sharp wind blowing from the north that bit through my cloak. I was glad of the sheepskin gloves I’d discovered in one of my saddle bags.
The horses were weary after three days of hard riding, and I felt as tired as they were. Arthur had said nothing to me as we’d readied our horses, but I noticed him and Merlin deep in conversation by the water trough in the middle of the inn courtyard. Were they arguing? There’d been too much noise in the stables to make out what they were saying, but Arthur had seemed agitated. Merlin had slipped into place by my side as we rode out of the inn gates, but there was no laughter about him this morning. In fact, the nearer we drew to Viroconium, the less anyone spoke. It was as if all the warriors were holding their breath and waiting for something to happen.
