The crystal cave - Mary Stewart [104]
"Well, of course," I said, and gave the order to the pot-boy. "But don't use my name here, if you don't mind. I'm calling myself Emrys now till I see which way the wind blows."
He accepted this so readily that I realized things were even trickier in Maridunum than I had thought. It seemed it was dangerous to declare oneself at all. Most of the men in the tavern looked Welsh; there were none I recognized, which was hardly surprising, considering the company I had kept five years ago. But there was a group near the door who, from their fair hair and beards, might have been Saxon. I supposed they were Vortigern's men. We said nothing until the pot-boy had dumped a fresh flask on the table in front of us. My cousin poured it, pushed his plate aside, leaned back and looked at me enquiringly.
"Well, come on, tell me about yourself. What happened that night you left? Who did you go with? You couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen when you went, surely?"
"I fell in with a pair of traders going south," I told him. "I paid my way with one of the brooches that my gr -- that the old King gave me. They took me with them as far as Glastonbury. Then I had a bit of luck -- fell in with a merchant who was travelling west into Cornwall with glass goods from the Island, and he took me along." I looked down as if avoiding his eye, and twisted the cup between my fingers. "He wanted to set up as a gentleman, and thought it would do him credit to have a boy along who could sing and play the harp, and read and write as well."
"Hm. Very likely." I had known what he would think of my story, and indeed, his tone held satisfaction, as if his contempt of me had been justified. So much the better. It didn't matter to me what he thought. "Then?" he asked.
"Oh, I stayed with him for a few months, and he was pretty generous, he and his friends. I even made a fair amount on the side."
"Harping?" he asked, with a lift of the lip.
"Harping," I said blandly. "Also reading and writing -- I did the man's accounts for him. When he came back north he wanted me to stay with him, but I didn't want to come back. Didn't dare," I added, disarmingly frank. "It wasn't hard to find a place in a religious house. Oh, no, I was too young to be anything but a layman. To tell you the truth, I quite enjoyed it; it's a very peaceful life. I've been busy helping them to write out copies of a history of the fall of Troy." His expression made me want to laugh, and I looked down at my cup again. It was good ware, Samian, with a high gloss, and the potter's mark was clear. A.M. Ambrosius made me, I thought suddenly, and smoothed the letters gently with my thumb as I finished for Dinias the account of the five harmless years spent by his bastard cousin. "I worked there until the rumours started coming in from home. I didn't pay much heed to them at first -- rumours were always flying. But when we knew that it was true about Camlach's death, and then Vortimer's, I began to wonder what might have happened in Maridunum. I knew I had to see my mother again."
"You're going to stay here?"
"I doubt it. I like Cornwall, and I have a home there of a sort."
"Then you'll become a priest?"
I shrugged. "I hardly know yet. It's what they always meant me for, after all. Whatever the future is there, my place here is gone -- if I ever had one. And I'm certainly no warrior."
He grinned at that. "Well, you never were, exactly, were you? And the war here isn't over; it's hardly begun, let me tell you." He leaned across the table confidentially, but the movement knocked his cup so that it rocked, and the wine washed up to the rim. He grabbed and steadied it. "Nearly spilled that, and the wine's nearly out again. Not bad stuff, eh? What about another?"
"If you like. But you were saying -- ?"
"Cornwall, now. I've always thought I'd like to go there. What are they saying there about Ambrosius?"
The wine was already talking. He had forgotten to be confidential; his voice was loud,