Page 7 of Touched By Maen Llia
She shook her head. “I have never met him. He left Maridunum long before I was born, but I have heardsomuch about him. Is it true he can make himself invisible? That he…” She caught hold of herself, reined in her excitement and said stiffly; “Prove you are from Camelot, or I will assume you are lying and from Brycheiniog and then…” She pulled her knife and clutched it hard so her hand did not shake. “You will not lay a finger upon the ladies of Dyfed.”
The shorter man looked from her to the ladies cowering on the other side of the river.
The tall man with the black hair glanced at the knife, then at her. “You think I am your enemy?”
“You have a bow upon your back, and a sword at your waist, and a knife in your boot.” Only now did she notice that the sword was a good one, with silver on the hilt and a stone in the pommel. He wore well-made, shaped and hardened armor, not a stitched leather jerkin, which so many of the Brycheiniog men were forced to use. Everything about him was well-appointed, cared for and expensive. Even the pin at his shoulder, holding his furled-back cloak in place, glinted. It was a strangely shaped pin, too.
But his skin and eyes and hair were those of a Celtic man, typical of men in both Dyfed and Brycheiniog.
“All King Arthur’s men wear such arms,” he replied. He raised his hands once more. “Come with me and speak to Prince Merlin himself. Assure yourself that we mean you no harm. In fact…” He lowered his arms. “You may be able to show us the quickest way to Maridunum. Merlin insists upon using the road.”
Catrin laughed. “The old Roman road will add three miles to your journey, king’s man.”
“Then it is fortunate we found you,” the sandy-haired man said. “Please, speak to Merlin and then show us the fastest way to shade and wine and a pillow. It has been averylong day.”
Catrin looked from one to the other. Then she turned to look at the women across the river. “I will see if they speak truly,” she told them.
“They will abduct you!” Betrys cried, her hands back on her hips.
The tall one shook his head. “I give you my word, we will do no such thing. Merlin waits upon the road, just over the top of the hill past the stone. Will you come with me?” His gaze was steady. His eyes were filled with nothing more than patience.
Catrin put her knife back in her girdle and nodded.
IV
The slender, tall woman with wild red hair stood before the nose of Merlin’s gelding, a hand by the hilt of her pathetic eating knife. Marcus was astonished by the way she bargained with the Prince, as if he were a mere fisherman and she, a grand lady in finest linens and furs, buying her husband’s supper, not a simple maid in a worn tunic without a skerrick of jewelry or adornment.
Merlin treated her with the gravest of courtesy and took no offence when she said that the road they stood upon would take them out of their way, if they were truly bound for Maridunum. Instead, he slid to the ground and moved around the horse to stand in front of her and ask that she guide them to the palace.
“If you can save us miles, you will have my gratitude,” Merlin said. “My men are weary and dusty.”
“Your horses…you will not be able to ride them, the way we go,” the woman said, glancing at the retinue.
“Walking will stretch the limbs,” Merlin said, sounding pleased.
The woman nodded. “I will fetch the other women. Stay here.” She spun and lifted her tunic and ran like a deer up the mild slope, and disappeared.
When Marcus pulled his gaze back to the road, he found Merlin was watching him.
“Let the women precede us,” Merlin said. “But stay in front of them.”
“Yes, Merlin,” Marcus replied.
And so it happened. The women returned, shy and quiet, clinging together. They formed a clump in front of Bedivere’s, Lucan’s and Merlin’s horses’ noses, with the red-haired woman at their front. Marcus handed Bryn Cuno’s reins and moved up to where the red-headed woman stood waiting. “Whenever you are ready,” he told her.
Her eyes were not proper Celtic black, but the blue colour of the sea when it was shallow. King Arthur’s eyes were a similar colour, but his were often stormy with irritation, anger or impatience. His temper was legendary.
The tint of the woman’s hair was also intriguing. It seemed to draw all the fire and energy of the day and radiate light. She was one of the brighter spots in a day growing dimmer by the minute.
The woman moved forward, her fine chin pointed ahead. She immediately stepped off the even surface of the road, into the dry, ankle-high grasses and uneven downslope and moved across the face of the slope, heading southwest.
Marcus caught up with her. “My name is Marcus,” he began.
“You are Roman?” she asked. “I did not think there were any Romans left in Britain.”
“King Arthur’s family was one of the greatest Roman British families.”
She frowned. “I had forgotten that,” she admitted. “You do not look Roman.”
