The Last Enchantment - Mary Stewart [63]
Casso ran ahead of me into the warm cave of the shop, and lifted a couple of faggots. Taking them to the fire, he made the motion of throwing them on the ashes.
"Only one," I said softly. "Good man. Now, if you will go back and get Ulfin, and bring him here to me, you can get yourself dried and warm, and then forget all about us."
A nod, then, smiling, a pantomime to show me that my secret, whatever it was, would be safe with him. God knew what he thought I was doing: an assignation, perhaps, or spy's work. Even at that, he knew about as much as I knew myself.
"Casso. Would you like to learn to read and write?"
Stillness. The smile vanished. In the growing flicker of the fire I saw him rigid, all eyes, unbelieving, like the lost traveller who has the clue, against all hope, thrust into his hand. He nodded once, jerkily.
"I shall see that you are taught. Go now, and thanks. Good night."
He went, running, as if the stinking alley were as light as day. Halfway up it I saw him jump and spring, like a young animal suddenly let out of its pen on a fine morning. I went quietly back into the shop, picking my way past the wheel-pit and the heavy sledge left leaning by the pile of spokes. Near the fireplace was the stool where the boy sat who kept the bellows going. I sat down to wait, spreading my wet cloak to the warmth of the fire.
Outside, drowning the soft sounds of the rain, the lasher roared. A loose paddle of the great wheel, hammered by the water, clacked and thudded. A pair of starving dogs raced by, wrangling over something unspeakable from a midden. The wheelwright's shop smelled of fresh wood, and sap drying, and the knots of burning elm. The faint tick of the fire was clearly audible in the warm darkness against the water noises outside. Time went by.
Once before I had sat like this, by a fire, alone, with my mind on a birth-chamber, and a child's fate revealed to me by the god. That had been a night of stars, with a wind blowing over the clean sea, and the great king-star shining. I had been young then, sure of myself, and of the god who drove me. Now I was sure of nothing, save that I had as much hope of diverting whatever evil Morgause was planning as a dry bough had of damming the force of the lasher.
But what power there was in knowledge, I would have. Human guesswork had brought me here, and we should see if I had read the witch aright. And though my god had deserted me, I still had more power than is granted to common men: I had a king at my call.
And now here was Ulfin, to share this vigil with me as he had shared it in Tintagel. I heard nothing, only saw when his body blocked the dim sky in the doorway.
"Here," I said, and he came in, groping his way over to the glow.
"Nothing yet, my lord?"
"Nothing."
"What are you expecting?"
"I'm not quite sure, but I think someone will come this way tonight, from the queen."
I felt him turn to peer at me in the darkness. "Because Lot is due home?"
"Yes. Is there any more news of that?"
"Only what I told you before. They expect him to press hard for home. He could be here very soon."
"I think so, too. In any case, Morgause will have to make sure."
"Sure of what, my lord?"
"Sure of the High King's son."
A pause. "You mean you think they will smuggle him out, in case Lot believes the rumours and kills the child? But in that case -- "
"Yes? In that case?"
"Nothing, my lord. I wondered, that's all...You think they will bring him this way?"
"No. I think they have already brought him."
"They have? Did you see which way?"
"Not since I have been here. I am certain that the baby in the castle is not Arthur's child. They have exchanged it."
A long breath beside me in the darkness. "For fear of Lot?"
"Of course. Think about it, Ulfin. Whatever Morgause may tell Lot, he must have heard what everyone is saying, ever since it became known that she was with child. She has tried to persuade him that the child is his, but premature; and he may believe her. But do you