Copyright

HarperVoyager

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First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2020

Copyright © Alex Myers 2020

Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Cover images: 19th Era 2/Alamy Stock Photo (knight), Hazel McAllister/Alamy Stock Photo (castle detail), Shutterstock.com (stars)

Alex Myers asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008352684

Ebook Edition © July 2020 ISBN: 9780008352707

Version: 2021-02-03

Dedication

To all my teachers who led me to read, write, and think and who also let me find my own way.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Preface

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Preface

In 1911, in Wollaton Hall in Nottingham, in a crate marked Old papers – no value, rested a manuscript. The manuscript, likely copied for Lady Beatrice de Gavre on the occasion of her marriage in 1286, contains eighteen stories. One of these was Silence – a previously undiscovered poem over seven hundred years old.

Written in Old French, a mixture of Francien and Picard, the poem is an unusual one. It tells the story of a girl raised as a boy – a motif somewhat familiar from the tales of warrior maidens and women musicians that circulated in the same time period. But it also contains completely novel elements, such as spirited debates between personified figures of Nature and Nurture, who argue over Silence’s true self.

In places, this 13th-century poem treats gender in a way that seems post-modern. The purported author, one Heldris of Cornwall (otherwise unknown), puns with the gendered endings of words and deliberately undermines the ‘reliability’ of language to reveal gender. To give one example, from Sarah Roche-Mahdi’s excellent translation:

‘He [Silence] was so used to men’s usage

and had so rejected women’s ways

that little was lacking for him to be a man

Whatever one could see was certainly male!’

This is a writer who understands that a major aspect of gender is what’s visible in public life (what we would now call gender expression). The ‘little that is lacking’ (that is, genitalia) doesn’t matter at all when it comes to lived experience and others’ perceptions.

When I read these lines, and others like them, I knew I had found a text that I had to explore more fully. What follows, is an expansion, a reimagining, a riff, on Silence. The major plot points are the same, many of the characters are as well. I wanted to be true to the struggle between Nature and Nurture, but represent it more organically. I wanted to keep the troubled (and troubling) depiction of (most) women being evil and inferior, while (noble) men are greedy and glorious. I added a bit more of Merlin because – well, because it’s Merlin. I added more to the story of Silence’s time with the minstrels and his time outside of England, which the original hurries through. And I changed the telling of Silence’s re-entry to England in order to further explore how this bittersweet homecoming feels to Silence and also to simplify some of the interactions between him and Queen Eufeme, which are quite drawn out and convoluted in the original. But on the whole, the changes I made were in the service of writing a tale full of fantasy and narrative tension; I tried to be faithful to my reading of the original in spirit even when I was not faithful in precise detail.

For those who are curious and want further reading, I highly recommend Sarah Roche-Mahdi’s English translation of the original; this volume will point you to other wonderful scholarship in the field as well.

PROLOGUE

On the far side of the inn, the flames guttered in the hearth, dancing in answer to some gust outside. Shadows gathered and fled across the floor, leaping as quickly as my fingers did along the strings of my harp. A cry went up from the crowd standing near the fire, answered by laughter, and into this cacophony I sent my voice, baritone, still pleasant, though it had seen better days. ‘There stands upon a plain … a great circle of stone. The Giant’s Ring.’ Oh, this story. I had always loved it. The tale of Merlin, that great wizard, moving the stone circle from Mount Killaraus to Salisbury. One day, I would see those stones, feel them beneath my fingers.

But for now, I was in the corner, the one furthest from the fire, while two of the locals vied at arm-wrestling. Others surrounded them, lifting tankards and sloshing ale and calling out in the growly accent of Cornwall. The fishmonger’s jerkin bore stains of guts and slime, letting off a rotten stink as he leaned in close to my ear. ‘Play “My Lord’s Gone A-Hunting”,’ he slurred. ‘No one wants to listen to this dung.’ I almost warned the man that he’d risk a curse from Merlin himself if he didn’t mind his tongue, but he’d already lurched back to the wrestling, and a cheer went up as someone’s arm was pinned, drowning out my perfect recounting of how the wizard had lifted the massive stones from the top of Mount Killaraus and …

From the door to the kitchen, Isolde caught my eye. She stood there, wooden spoon in one hand. (Don’t be fooled – she hasn’t stirred a pot in years. That spoon has other uses.) With her empty hand, she made a hook of her first finger and held it near her ear: our signal. She had sensed something in the room and so I put down my harp and took up my lute and began ‘Maeve’s Friendly Thighs’. Merlin could wait for another night.

The men roared as they heard the song and the attention shifted from the two wrestlers (who had pushed back their stools to square off – how did Isolde know?) to me, and I was forced to stamp my feet and wiggle my eyebrows and insinuate all manner of stupidity, and just as I was silently bemoaning what exactly had landed me – me! – here at the end of the world, the door of the inn broke open.

A rush of damp air swept across me. But instead of the briny sea, it carried the scent of fresh-turned fields, the sweetness of new grass.

A tall figure wrapped in a simple brown cloak strode through then pulled the door shut, and Mary, the serving-girl, stepped forward. As she took the cloak, firelight picked up hints of gold in hair the colour of winnowed wheat, gold also glinting in eyes grey as a stormy ocean. For an instant, the fire seemed to swell, the flames fanning to a rich gold, making the whole inn glow. One of the wrestlers, who a moment ago had reached out to grab his opponent’s shirt, now clapped him gruffly on the shoulder.

And myself? My lute seemed to play on its own, a little ripple of notes that made me laugh as I sang, ‘And Maeve did coo …’, the words coming out by rote despite all my attention being focused on this … figure. I could not yet tell if this was man or woman who had just entered. The side-slit doublet and leggings suggested man, but there were curves beneath the fabric, or a certain slenderness, like a boy on the verge of manhood. So, not a man. Well, probably not.

I tried not to stare at it, but stared nonetheless.

The men around me settled at their tables, taking up the chorus. Isolde ushered the new arrival to a stool near the fire and sat down next to the person, whoever and whatever it may be. I played through song after song, until my voice grew hoarse, and then I plucked a wordless melody, listening as two men with straw in their hair talked of sheep, and three men with silver buttons on their coats talked of the king. ‘They say he’s going to sail against Norway … stop the raids up north.’

‘Raids? He doesn’t care about those. He’s after more land, or more gold.’

‘Maybe if he takes theirs, he’ll leave us alone.’

‘I’ll pay my share, if he keeps our shores quiet …’

I listened, but only just. My eyes, my ears, my every sense was keyed to the person by the fire. Broad, high cheekbones, eyebrows – the dark umber of ale – two perfect arches above those grey-ocean eyes. Oh, beauty. A man could write songs about such a face. What was it? I had to know, for it felt wrong, even in my own mind, designating, as it does, plants and low things, while this being stood and sat and nodded and spoke with shoulders back, head up, moving with dignity but not arrogance. With presence. So, not it. They.

Their skin was chapped red from wind and weather, flushed, too, from the warmth of the fire. It made them look hearty and hale, as rugged as a druid’s oak. And though there wasn’t a whisker about them, let alone a long white beard, there was something of the druid about them, a wise look. They were pensive as Isolde spoke, nodding and now and then reaching down to scratch the ears of the inn’s cat, which twined around their ankles. (Wretched animal! Just that morning it bit my finger when I had tried to pet it.)

From the keep, the bell rang for Compline and several men stood, gathered cloaks, and bundled out into the night. Compline. Another day gone. I ought to be on my way in the morning; it wouldn’t do to stay put for long. Mary brought me a pitcher of wine, and Isolde gave me a stiff nod: I was done for the night.

I set the harp aside, poured myself a mug and tried to study the person by the fire while appearing to be deep in thought. It didn’t work. They stood and said, ‘I won’t keep you from sleep, good sir.’ And, oh, their voice. Husky, unbroken. Pure.

‘Stay,’ I said, raising my tankard. ‘I’ve wine to drink and maybe you’ve a story to tell.’

They considered their mug. They considered the flames licking the logs. ‘I’ve a story or two in me.’

I crossed the room and we settled at a table. I caught again a whiff of that smell – as if I had plunged my hands into the soil of a just-ploughed furrow, felt the blood-warm earth.

‘You play well,’ they said. ‘Why aren’t you singing at some duke’s court?’

‘Indeed, I played at Count Perville’s for some seasons, when I was a stripling. Played at Earl Norchester’s as well.’ Their eyes lit up at that name, and I added, ‘Years ago, mind,’ before they could ask a question I didn’t wish to answer. ‘But Life at court is for young men – wooing and flirting and gossip. I’m here for but a day or two. Good Mistress Isolde has given me hearthspace.’

‘Isolde is indeed a good woman,’ they said. I couldn’t look into their eyes for long; they were not just the grey of the ocean, but seemed to embody the roll of the swells, commanding and compelling. ‘And good people are few to be found, and so, when found, to be treasured.’ They made a little bow on their stool – a gesture that would have been awkward from anyone else, but was courtly and smooth from them. ‘I am Silence. Of Cornwall.’

I smiled. ‘And I am Heldris. And at this moment, I suppose I am of Cornwall as well. And what do we have but this moment? Do you dwell in the village or in the keep?’

‘Neither. And both.’ They stretched their legs with a sigh. They were nice legs, with the roundness of calf that comes from hours in the saddle.

The fire popped. We sipped at our mugs.

‘Silence,’ I said. ‘A most unusual name, I’d venture. How did your parents happen to select it?’

‘Have you more to drink? The story might take a while to unfold.’

‘I will appeal to Isolde.’

They chuckled. ‘It will be a good measure of you, minstrel, to see what she accords as your due. Isolde is wise and a good judge of character.’

I rose, reluctant to go, certain that, like some visitor from the land of Fey, if I turned my back, they would disappear. But wine loosens the tongue. I ducked into the warm lair of the kitchen, getting a jug and a hissed warning from Isolde: ‘Mind your manners with that one or I’ll dent your head with my ladle.’ She would, too. I returned to the fireside and poured wine. When they reached for the mug, I saw nicks and cuts on their hands, white welts of scars on rough skin – what a man gets from working in fields or forests or shops. And there on the thumb, and there, on the finger pads: yellow-waxy callouses I recognized as even more familiar.

‘Do you play?’ I tipped my head towards my harp, wrapped and leaning against the wall.

The hands disappeared beneath the table, as if they’d shown too much, and the stranger said only, ‘Another life.’

‘Tell me about that life.’

‘It starts,’ they hunched forward, staring into the leaping flames, ‘with twin girls …’

‘Ah!’ I could barely contain myself – twins are always deformed or twisted, either on the outside or on the inside, or one is perfect and beautiful and the other an ugly wretch. Or one is saintly and delightful and the other evil and malevolent.

‘… daughters of some earl, I forget who. This was years before I was born. You know the type. Rich lands, beautiful girls. The twins married off at first bloom. To two earls. Also of the usual sort.’ They spoke in a hitching, hesitant way.

Dear listener, what follows is the story as I recall it. Or as I recount it. Or, perhaps, as I have shaped it. For stories bear the imprint of all who tell them. Silence told it to me in that little inn, and I have told it to myself many times since then. And now, listener, I share it with you. I share it in the spirit of truth, knowing that you, in turn, will make it your own.

CHAPTER ONE

Once there were twin girls, born – perfect and beautiful – to Earl Le Valle. Their mother died when they were but infants, and their father raised them to be pleasant, mild, and diligent alike. He doted on them. Even the household staff could seldom tell them apart, they were so equally flawless and winsome. As they grew, they ripened, like grapes on the vine, swelling just right, softening just so, sweetening to perfection. And at the height of that perfection, two dashing earls – we’ll call them Rodney and Jacques – married the twins in great joy at their father’s court.

No expense was spared for the wedding festivities. The earl hired a dozen minstrels (minstrels are the most important part of any wedding), a dozen jugglers, and a troupe of mummers. Hunters flushed a hundred deer from the earl’s woods and so the kitchen-yard was filled with a hundred spit-boys roasting the meat to perfection. Feathers flew as geese and capons were plucked. The priest even had the altar boys polish the church bell. In short, everything was done to perfect excess and the twins were married and their husbands took them to their separate manors.

Not long after, the twins’ father died, and the two husbands laid claim to the earl’s estate – each saying his wife was the older twin. The girls themselves, of course, had no memory of their birth, and their father had insisted on raising them as equals, never disclosing their order of birth. Retainers were questioned, their old nursemaid was dragged from retirement, but no one could say for sure. The old earl had been so fair-minded – so naïve – that he had never recorded which girl emerged first. Rather, that silly fool had told them they came out side by side, holding hands (poor mother!).

The husbands fumed, stormed, and consulted their counsellors but there was no resolution at all. They appealed directly to King Evan, known across England for his sense of justice and his utter faith in the law. (Now, of course, as king he makes the law, which makes his faith in the law rather, well, self-serving, but let us never mind that. A king ought to be praised, if a minstrel wants to make a living.) King Evan considered the matter carefully and discussed it with his advisers, who examined every letter of the law. But even they could make no resolution of the quandary, apart from to suggest evenly splitting the land and holdings. Neither husband would agree to this – half a holding! When it could all be his? And so in the end the earls agreed to a bout of single combat to settle the matter.

They met on the king’s pitch: that long stretch of packed earth, its tufts of grass nurtured by the noble blood that has been spilled there. That hard and level plain beneath Winchester’s walls where men are tested and found, all too often, to be wanting. The parties went out in the morning. Two priests blessed the earls. The king, resplendent in a robe of rich blood-red, presided from a shaded pavilion. He was young then, his hair as dark as a raven’s feathers, his jaw so square it might have been carved from stone, and not yet married – his beautiful queen, Eufeme, would be won in a few years’ time. The crowd and two earls waited until the sun stood directly overhead so neither would have the advantage. Then the young lords took to the pitch. One of the earls wore armour his father had given him, with gold worked into the greaves, so that he sparkled in the sun, a gleaming paragon of manhood. The other wore a helm, won in a battle against the Danes, set with precious gems, and with every turn of his head, green and red crystals glowed; never had a man seemed more worthy.

The king raised his hand; the earls raised their swords, saluting one another. Their squires had sharpened those swords at that day’s dawning, working the edges with a whetstone until either earl could have shaved his throat, so keen were they. They set their stances. Behind the king, in the shade of the pavilion, the earls’ wives, those two twins, clung to each other and wept, tears staining their angelic faces.

The king dropped his hand, the trumpet blasted, the two earls leapt at each other, their blades shrieking, locking, the two men grappling, leaping back, trying each to gain the advantage over the other. But they were as well-matched in war as in wives and so within an hour, both earls lay dead upon the ground. The twins were now widows. The two spring flowers of knighthood had been plucked too early and their two ladies, once perfect lilies, were now left to wilt.

King Evan flew into a terrible rage – what an utter waste! What vile stupidity! If it went on like this, he’d have no knights left. And so he declared, from that day forward, no girl or woman anywhere in his kingdom could inherit a thing. Not land, not title, not even a skein of yarn.

He seized the twins’ father’s lands for himself, sent the bereaved twin widows to a convent, and …

My stranger’s name proved true for a moment. Silence. The cat came around again and jumped into their lap. It eyed me as I poured more wine. Around us, the inn had darkened. Night waited at the windows. A gust rattled the door, pushed down against the flames in the hearth. Then they leapt back up, illuminating a golden highlight in Silence’s hair, so momentarily radiant, I swore I could smell sun-warmed oats and not the smoky belch of the fire. They leaned back, putting themselves in shadow, nodding to themselves, as if they were telling themselves the story, keeping it from me. Unfair.

I fed the fire another log. I prompted as gently as I could with a conversational nothing: ‘Twins. They’re always evil.’ But even as I mumbled, my mind was spinning out the twists this story might take (a visit from an incubus to the convent, one of the twins conceiving the person who sat beside me). ‘Was it,’ I tried, ‘a demon? Who came to lie with one of the fair twins?’ I paused, but no answer came. ‘Like Merlin’s own begetting?’ I prompted. ‘Surely you know the story how the great wizard’s mother lay with an incubus and that is how Merlin got his sorcer—’

My stranger stirs. ‘You will hear of Merlin soon enough.’

I lean closer to them, my fingers flexing. I could already imagine how I’d tell this tale – how at the earls’ dual fall, I’d strike my harp, thus and so! And the promise of Merlin, and magic to come …

Silence cleared their throat a little. ‘Sometimes it seems it’s all a dream. I wake from one only to find myself in another.’

That voice seized me back to the present. An old man’s words. Odd to hear them in the mild tenor of a boy’s voice, with the huskiness of innocence. I waited, trying to be as patient as a priest.

‘Maybe it doesn’t begin there,’ Silence said at last. ‘Maybe it starts with …’

My stranger was threatening to settle into deep brooding, so I pushed their mug closer. They drank deeply. I watched the cords of their throat move with each swallow (no Adam’s apple, but not all men have one). Some downy hairs on their cheeks, though their words made them seem old enough to be a greybeard. Words! Few enough of those to go around.

‘Perhaps it starts with my father. He served King Evan. Was a knight of his inner circle. Fought at his side in many a battle. But mostly he went hunting.’

We were off again at last, all herky-jerky.

‘My father was Earl Cador.’ They paused as if waiting for a reply.

I mumbled, ‘Ah, Cador,’ as if it were a familiar name. Sons of earls always think their fathers are famous because those fathers hire minstrels to write stories about them. But there are earls enough in this country to pave a road with them. ‘You’re his … son?’ I ventured, hoping they would affirm my choice of ‘boy’.

‘I’m not a bastard, if that’s what you’re asking. Nor am I a liar. I may not look to you like the child of an earl, but I am.’ They levelled their gaze, staring straight into me. ‘I always tell the truth.’

A shame. I thought then that the story would be of little worth, for the truth is seldom wondrous. Moreover, they had dodged the question I asked – neither saying they were Cador’s son, nor saying they weren’t. I pushed aside my frustration and said, ‘Cador … your father? I’ve heard he was brave and gallant in his youth.’ I’d heard no such thing, but then I’ve always thought the virtue of honesty is rather a tepid one.

‘Mmmmm. Yes.’

Such reluctance and stammering was enough to make me want to set aside my tankard, unroll my blankets and curl up, story be damned. But the firelight cast hungry shadows on that face, set those grey eyes glowing, and I found that I wanted, I needed, to know this person.

‘Yes, I believe it does start with Cador. My father. Years before I was born. He served King Evan. They often hunted together.’

King Evan, who ruled all of England from the Humber in the north to the tip of Cornwall in the south, from Offa’s Dyke in the west to the sea in the east, had received word from a bedraggled messenger (who practically crawled into his hall bearing the message in a last gasp) that raiders had come ashore near Titchfield and put houses to flame. King Evan had been dining when the messenger arrived (for King Evan often liked to dine) and sent his beautiful queen Eufeme away from the hall to her chambers, ordered the servants to clear the tables, and commanded his knights to ready their horses immediately. Titchfield lay two days’ march away, across the heathland and down to the coast, and they hastened to begin immediately.

King Evan rode in the vanguard, his normally handsome face contorted with rage. Raiders! Interrupting dinner! They gave their horses free rein, galloping across the marshy plains. Alongside the king rode his nephew, Cador, an orphan whom the king had generously brought up in the keep, raising him to knighthood in just the last year. What a pair they made. King Evan’s raven-dark hair now bore a few strands of silver, giving him a steely affect. Square-jawed and blue-eyed, he sat upright on his horse, hand resting on the pommel of his sword, staring ahead of him as if, despite the miles to go, he could see the raiders already. Cador bounded at his left, riding so fast that his blond hair streamed out behind him (long hair was the fashion then for knights), his ruddy cheeks still soft with youth, his hazel eyes drinking in the world. But this man was anything but soft: he had first blooded his blade against Norway’s raiders, in the battle that won King Evan his beautiful bride, Eufeme. If the king looked to be carved from stone, then Cador was hewn from oak. A perfect pair of men, riding side by side.

The raiders had long since left Titchfield and proceeded up the coast. King Evan surprised them in the midst of marauding the coastal village of Hook and soon his knights had put them to the rout. The battle is not worth telling: the raiders were only a motley crew, half-starved, without much fight in them. The fishermen of those parts were grateful (and no doubt the brave king capitalized on their daughters’ gratitude in particular). They hailed him as he was often hailed: King Evan the brave, King Evan the gallant, King Evan the just. The troop from Winchester stayed long enough to enjoy as much of a feast as the fisherfolk could offer (I suspect they enjoyed other offerings of flesh much more than the fish) and then, in short order, began their long journey of return.

Evan and his knights had stripped off their heavy mail and thick plates of armour, loaded these on the packhorses, which they left in the care of their squires, and now rode lightly, the rich air of late summer carrying scents of ripe grain – what the raiders had hoped to make off with. One squire rode ahead of the king, with Cador once again at his side, carrying a staff with the king’s banner. A golden lion, passant, stood against a field of azure blue. Each gust of wind made the lion writhe, the banner snapping so the blue looked like the waves on the sea, and the lion’s tongue, blood-red, licked the air. The squire who carried the staff puffed out his chest and strained to keep the staff perfectly upright: he was leading the king’s procession.

Evan, for his own part, slumped a little in the saddle, passing bits of gossip with Lord Fendale, who rode to his right. Lord Fendale, old enough to be the king’s father, had grown portly in recent years but he still enjoyed squeezing himself into his old armour and riding out for a good fight, especially one he was likely to win.

‘Ah, that was a merry battle,’ Lord Fendale sighed.

‘Hardly a battle, old friend.’

Lord Fendale laughed. ‘It is true! I have fought greater wars at my own table.’

‘You married off that daughter of yours yet?’ King Evan asked Lord Fendale.

‘Which one?’ the lord lamented with a moan. ‘I have three yet to dispose of.’

With a circling flourish, the king settled a hand on his chest. ‘The one with the large … heart.’

‘Ah. Helena. I was thinking to save her for young Cador.’

At this, Cador blushed. He had a fair complexion, white as milk, as befitted his innocence and purity, in those days. ‘Thank you, m’lord,’ he fumbled.

‘Cador will have his choice of women, I should think,’ King Evan said. ‘Though I would be happy to see him settled with someone not just of ample bosom but of ample land as well.’ He turned to the younger man and asked, ‘You are the third son?’

‘Fourth, Your Highness.’

‘I could never keep track of how many my late brother had,’ the king said. He leaned over to Fendale. ‘Have you any younger brothers? No? Just as well. Mine was in swaddling clothes when I earned my first sword. But he still spawned half a dozen children before I had even one.’ Fendale coughed and hemmed at this. It was well known in Winchester that Evan’s first wife, and now Eufeme, his second, had delivered nothing but stillbirths. ‘No matter,’ the king said, turning back to Cador. ‘You have grown into a fine man at Winchester.’

‘Thanks to your generosity, Your Highness,’ said Cador, offering a little bow in his saddle.

They passed through a small hamlet of rough huts, their thatch grey though the fields around them were golden. Children, most half-naked, ran about, and a dog streaked across the road, making Lord Fendale’s horse shy to the side. Cador reached a hand down and stroked the side of the neck of his own horse, Sleek. ‘Easy,’ he murmured. Some peasants emerged from the huts, shapeless in rough brown tunics; it was impossible for Cador to discern if they were men or women until a couple of them folded over in awkward bows. Cador responded with a scanty nod and King Evan, for his part, ignored them entirely. In a moment, they were past the squalid huts, and the rutted track carried them through fields thick with grain. The king’s mount, a chestnut stallion named Hero, whuffed and shook his head, jangling the bit, as if he knew that some day these stalks of oats might feed him.

Then the fields petered out, and the track narrowed, and the land became boggy. Sparse trees with crooked branches, murky puddles. The track ceased its straight-ahead course and split in an inconvenient Y. The squire reined in his mount and turned in the saddle. ‘Yes, sir?’ he said, expectantly, to the king.

Now most travellers at this junction would hardly hesitate. They would take the road to the right, the north-easterly route. It would extend their journey by many miles, more than a half-day’s travel. Stop a merchant at that crossroads, ask him why he takes the longer route, and he’ll tell you, ‘Oh, there are mountains in that forest. Quite steep.’ And he’ll be a liar. It’s the forest he’s afraid of.

For the left-hand track, which is weedy and overgrown even at its inception, leads straight north, straight into the forest of Gwenelleth. Gwenelleth is rumoured to hold … well, what is it not rumoured to hold? A giant. Several trolls. Malevolent imps of assorted types. Most men would point their mounts to the right; indeed, the squire with the banner (and Lord Fendale) was already edging that way.

But King Evan squinted to the left and shook off the languor and gossip that had marked the last hour of riding. He sat straight in his saddle, his shoulders square, his eyes narrowed to examine the dense tangle of briars and oak trees that shadowed the track ahead. Why should the forest of Gwenelleth intimidate him? He was King Evan, and this was his land.

And just as the Duke of Greenwold, who had been riding in the rear, approached King Evan to suggest turning right (for nearby there was a sweet spring where they might water their horses, while forest water is of course tannic and bitter) a massive buck, well fatted and sporting antlers with at least eight points, crashed through the underbrush and leapt across the path.

Well! That was an invitation no man could resist. They had no swift hounds with them, but that scarcely kept King Evan from signalling to Lord Fendale, who raised his horn and blew, avaunt, avaunt! And off they all sprang to the hunt, ploughing deep into the forest, leaving the laden pack animals and the poor squires behind.

Cador rode with the king, in the vanguard of the knights, pressing their mounts hard. On they plunged, never minding the whip of branches across their faces. The buck’s tail teased them, flashing white as it flipped upwards with every nimble leap, only to disappear a moment later in the thick growth. Whenever they came to the merest opening in the trees, Cador would loose an arrow. Some missed, it is true, but once, twice, three times he landed a shaft in the beast’s hide, and every time the buck would bellow. Cador called for a short spear, for the king had only his lance – most unsuitable for the closeness of the forest – and no reply came. He turned in his saddle, and found that the two of them were alone; they had drawn far ahead of the other knights. Cador paused, but King Evan spurred his chestnut stallion so it leapt and Cador’s mount, Sleek, surged in response, as if it too couldn’t wait to catch the buck, and they were again in pursuit, the forest growing thicker around them.

From far behind them came the sound of Lord Fendale’s horn, no longer the brazen avaunt but now the three-note call for succour. Someone had fallen. Cador wheeled his mount towards the noise, but King Evan hesitated.

‘My lord?’ Cador asked.

‘The buck,’ Evan said, his eyes on the undergrowth where already the buck had disappeared.

‘A knight must heed a request for aid.’ Cador nodded emphatically, his blond hair swinging around his chin.

‘If we must.’ King Evan sighed, still staring into the brush, his dark brows drawn together.

They turned their horses and rode more slowly, no longer the reckless pace of pursuit, for their horses whuffed and snorted with fatigue. They rode a hunt in reverse, following the drops of blood back to where they’d been. Succour! sounded again, more urgent.

When they emerged from the tangle of thorns and vines onto the trodden path, what a sight of gore and desolation they found. Three horses lay on their sides, bellies slit open from throat to tail; and what had been squires, half a dozen of them, lay scattered about: a leg here, an arm there, though plenty of pieces were missing, the forest coated with viscera and blood.

‘My God,’ the king said. The knights’ armour dotted the woods, dented, scratched, and gore-coated. ‘What evil happened here?’ He held the reins firm in his hand, for Hero shied away at the smell of blood. He looked about for a squire to whom he could hand the reins, so that he could get off his frisky mount and examine this scene sombrely, as a king ought. But there were no squires.

Well. There was one. One squire and one donkey.

King Evan swung himself down from Hero’s back. ‘What has happened here?’ He looked about at the savaged bodies, the bloody remains; he scanned the ranks of his soldiers and lords, all of them trembling, a few seeming green. These flowers of knighthood, these hallmarks of courage, made ill by the devastation.

Swallowing back his own bile, Evan lifted his chin to the squire. ‘Well? What happened?’

‘The others went ahead, sire.’ The poor squire trembled as he spoke. ‘I waited behind that rise.’ He pointed back up the track. ‘To, um, relieve, that is, release my bowels. I heard such terrible screeching … I ran to the crest and saw a huge lizard, a massive snake, but with legs. It had a horse in its mouth, and with one flick of its neck it broke the horse’s back and swallowed the carcass, and it had a squire clutched in each claw. I couldn’t watch. I ran. And it was all I could do to grab the donkey’s halter when he, too, fled for safety.’

The knights grumbled and cursed the imagination of foolish boys. But Cador waded through the gore and found claw marks scored deep into the bark of an oak and a shred of scaly flesh. He picked it up with the tip of his sword. Even at arm’s length, he could smell its foetid odour, the decay it embodied. The scales glistened, green and silver. With much trepidation, and a prayer sent up to the Holy Lord, Cador reached out and touched the flesh – it was cool and slippery. The other knights gasped as he returned to their midst and flung the serpent’s scales to the forest floor. ‘The boy tells the truth.’

There were those who wanted to ride right back out of that forest. But King Evan, say what you want of him, has always had a sense of when a score must be settled. And he declared that the blood of their squires and packhorses would be avenged and this serpent destroyed.

They buried the tattered remains of their squires beneath the trees, set the surviving squire to cleaning the gore-splattered armour and built a massive fire around which they sat as the sun sank low.

‘I have studied the piece of flesh and noted the pattern of the scales,’ said the most learned knight among them. He pointed with the tip of his sword at the scrap that Cador had recovered. It glinted malevolently in the firelight. ‘See how they overlap here? The green with the silver? Not at all like your common snake. And not like a dragon. No, my lords, I believe it is a wyvern that we are fighting.’ He paused and around the fire eyes widened and more than one knight tried to swallow in a throat gone dry. ‘They were the few serpents who escaped the Lord God’s curse in Eden, and so they are the snakes who kept their legs. They are more clever than a dragon and hungrier than any snake.’

‘Terrible creatures,’ said Lord Fendale, who was not nearly so learned. ‘Their breath is poisonous.’

‘As is their blood,’ said the Duke of Greenwold, even less learned than the other two. ‘It burns.’ He leaned towards the fire, holding his palms out, for the evening had turned chill.

‘Enough,’ said King Evan, who knew nothing of wyverns, but plenty about how a man can turn cowardly when darkness settles and stories start. He eyed the flames. ‘It is a foul beast and we will rid my kingdom of its filth. Our squires were young and untried. They were no match for the wiles of such a beast. Tomorrow we will show the serpent true knights.’ He glanced around at the men who circled the fire, his blue eyes settling on each in turn, just for a moment, before resting longer on Cador. Still mud-splattered from their chase of the buck, his blond hair tousled by the wind, the young knight seemed to have lost the softness of youth that he had when they set out from Winchester. The firelight picked out the hollows of his cheeks, the angles of his jaw.

At length, he lifted his eyes and met his king’s gaze. ‘Indeed we will, my liege.’

When morning dawned, Lord Fendale and the Duke of Greenwold agreed to search for the wyvern’s lair. Cador begged leave of the king, saying he wanted to offer prayers before the fight. King Evan granted him leave and told him not to ride too far. Cador donned a shirt of light mail over a jacket of boiled leather. He set his short spear in its holder, strapped his shield behind the saddle, and buckled his helm atop his head. This preparation was all the more difficult without a squire, but one cannot be too prepared when a wyvern is lurking. With his sword at his side and Sleek refreshed by a night’s rest in the glade, Cador looked a handsome knight. He rode at a gentle pace until he was some distance from the others and spurred the horse on. For it wasn’t prayer that Cador sought, but yesterday’s buck. All night he’d worried – not about the wyvern, but about the creature who might still be suffering because of his poor aim.

Who says knights are heartless and cruel? (I do. Usually.)

The knight rode through Gwenelleth’s dense tangle, following the trail of dried blood, furious with himself for causing such misery. At last, he came to a grove of oaks. Here, all the brush and briar of the forest disappeared and the ground was swept as clean as the king’s hall. The oaks – more than a dozen – rose in an almost-circle, their branches seeming to touch the sky. And there, in the middle of the grove, lay the buck.

Cador had spent his life hunting and fighting. He’d killed his first man – a thief who had climbed over a manor’s outer wall – at thirteen. He had trembled when the fight was over, but from fatigue, not guilt. It was just and right to kill when one’s person or property was threatened. And he didn’t remember killing his first deer or trapping his first rabbit. These deaths were of little consequence: they were food on the table, death to allow life. But this buck … it lay, panting, in the middle of the clearing. And though he knew he should avenge the death of the squires, who were mere innocents, he couldn’t rid himself of the guilt he felt at how much pain he had caused. To kill cleanly with good reason was right; to cause suffering was base and vile.

As he inched closer to the buck, he could see what a fine specimen it was – the spreading antlers bore eight points. The tawny sides, lighter than usual, were unblemished, with none of the scars and matted burrs that typically marred such animals’ coats. The only flaws: his three arrows. Two sprouted from the buck’s shoulder and one from the buck’s flank.

He dismounted and let the reins fall (his horse, Sleek, was well trained and would not budge). He stepped closer. By rights, he should have drawn his sword. The buck lay defeated, in misery. A quick thrust, there, where the leg joined the torso, into the heart, would end its suffering. Mercy for the beast. And he could ride off to seek vengeance for the squires.

And yet.

With a twinge of relief that no one was around, Cador sank to one knee, crossing his hands on the pommel of his sword, as if making obeisance. He could not say why, could only look at that massive buck, its night-black eyes staring into his, and whisper, ‘Sorry.’ The word was wrenched from him. ‘I’m sorry.’ Other words babbled in his mind – declarations that he’d wished he’d known, how he wouldn’t have shot those arrows if he had – half-nonsense that he knew to be true but didn’t understand. He reached out a hand. ‘I wish I could heal you, but I fear …’

‘Try the water of the spring.’

Cador scrambled to his feet. The voice had come from above. He loosened his sword in its sheath, swivelling his head around. ‘Who said that?’

‘I did. But hurry. The spring.’

There came a rustling of leaves high in one of the oaks. A motion caught his eye, a shifting of branches, while no breeze stirred the other trees. Cador half-drew his sword, spurred by fear and embarrassment (for whoever was in the tree had surely seen him kneel before an animal).

And yet.

The rustling ceased and he heard only the laboured breathing of the buck. A whuff from Sleek. The splashing of water. Unthinking, he dropped his sword into its sheath and ran towards the sound of the spring.

A rivulet of sparkling water plummeted from a rock shelf to land in a pebbly pool. At most springs – at least those near well-travelled paths – a wooden mug or horn cup would hang, suspended from a nearby branch, but there was none such here. Cador took off his helm, filled it to the brim, and carried it to the buck. He knelt and held the helm to the animal, but the buck rolled its eyes back and feebly turned its head away. Puzzled, Cador pushed the helm closer, but the buck refused to drink. So Cador dipped his fingers into it and flicked the water onto the buck’s head, as priests did with holy water.

‘It’ll take more than that, boy,’ the voice said. ‘This isn’t a christening.’

Cador looked around him, hoping for more advice, but none was forthcoming. He was alone; the trees were silent all around him. So, though it seemed undignified, he poured the water over the buck. Waited. Refilled the helm. Poured it again.

Three times in all did he empty his helm over the buck. After the third drenching, the buck raised its head, straining its neck and scrabbling with its hooves. Cador backed away. The buck flailed, found purchase, and stood on quivering legs. It shook itself, as a hound wet from the rain might shake itself, and the arrows fell loose. Where they had been, no scars or wounds remained. The buck gazed levelly at Cador, who felt a liquid squeeze of fear at the accusation there. Compelled, Cador bowed, and the buck dipped its antlers before running into the woods.

Silence, then:

‘Well done! For a moment, I thought you’d try to pour it down his throat. He wouldn’t have liked that. Haw!’

Cador spun about. There, on a low branch of an oak, sat an old man, his legs straddling the limb. His beard, matted and grey, had as much mistletoe tangled in it as the oak tree did. With a leap that belied his age, he vaulted to the ground and strode towards Cador. He had icy blue eyes that sparkled with what might have been amusement; his beard twitched, either with a smile or because some forest creature had taken up habitation within.

He was stark naked.

‘Well done, well done.’

Cador tried not to gape. Now that his interlocutor was revealed to be nothing but a dirty, naked old man, he felt disappointed. ‘Why didn’t you give the buck the water?’ he asked, wrinkling his nose; the old man smelled like a half-rotted carcass.

‘What an astute question from one so handsome.’ The old man offered a mocking bow. ‘That buck wouldn’t have let me come near enough to wet him with a single drop. Haw! He’s old King Keredic of Elmet. And it’s me that cast the curse to turn him into a buck. Haw! Haw!’ He laughed like a crow at the knight’s surprise.

Cador pulled himself up to his full height, so that he could look down on the old man. ‘I don’t understand your nonsense.’

‘I put a curse on King Keredic. I turned him into a buck. Follow me so far?’ His words were slow and mocking. His pale blue eyes glittered and glimmered; they seemed to reflect a light beyond what sun slanted into the clearing. ‘I was, let us say, intimate with his queen. I taught her the ways of wyrd, of glamours, of magic. And then that evil witch used that knowledge against me. Now I’m cursed too – made to live like the beasts of the forest, running about naked, eating only herbage. One day a year the curse lifts and I am able to speak and dress and move normally. It’s to give me a chance to apologize to the queen. But I usually just get a good meal at an inn. Grass is disgusting.’ He scratched his crotch. ‘Come to think of it, that day must be nearing. Even though I’m naked as a fish, I can at least talk to you. Haw!’

Cador’s confusion had only grown. An old man. A wizard. Who’d cursed a king and been cursed himself. Forced to live in the woods. It all seemed familiar to him. He recalled a story told to him as a child. A memory tinged with magic and legend tugged at his mind and stopped his sneering tone along with an instinct for caution. If – if! – this naked old man was actually a wizard, then Cador ought to be overly polite with him. And even if he wasn’t a wizard … well, it is knightly to be kind to the elderly and the … disadvantaged. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you, Sir Wizard?’ he offered in a measured voice.

‘Aren’t you the gallant fool? No. None but a maiden can break the curse. Or the queen, I suppose, and she’s no maiden. Not many maidens come traipsing through the forest of Gwenelleth.’ He sighed. ‘Besides. You’ve helped me enough by bringing that bastard buck back to life. No fun if he escapes my curse by dying.’

And here Cador had intended to help the buck, to put it out of its misery. How had it all gone so strange and wrong? He scratched his nose, trying to recall legends he’d heard of a man in the woods. But all he could summon was a general sense that it was best not to cross paths with wizards and, if you were unfortunate enough to do so, to tread carefully. So he gave the man a nod, as one would offer to an equal, and said, ‘I am glad to have been of service to you.’

‘Haw! Now you’re sounding smarter. You’ve been of service, eh? So I owe you a favour. Well, I always pay my debts. How about twice the return? Twofold. Sound fair to you?’ The old man winked, and his eyes sparkled some more – glittered, even, as if they were silver, not blue.

Cador gave a slow nod, trying to puzzle out what the trick might be. Everyone knows how wishes work.

‘I’ll give you aid once when you request it. And once, I’ll give you aid when you do not. Do we have a deal?’ The old man quirked an eyebrow and Cador stared at him, seeming to see past the matted hair and the mud-streaked face for the first time, past all that to the blue of his eyes, sharp and clear as ice, with none of the fogginess and clouding that age often brings. He seemed to see himself reflected back in those eyes; himself, but more perfect. As young, as handsome, but more: beautiful, too. Strong and well shaped and … impossible. So much magic. Who could …

Cador shook his head to clear it. ‘Are you … are you Merlin?’

‘Very handsome. Not so bright. That took you an awfully long time.’ He held out a hand; his fingers ended with long yellow nails thick and curled as a crow’s talons. ‘Do we have a deal?’

‘Help now and help later.’

‘Yes, a good deal.’ Merlin wiggled his fingers.

Cador considered. ‘Can you tell my future?’

Merlin let his shoulders slump. The light in his eyes dimmed. ‘I could. But that is a terrible idea. Every fool wants to know their future and then, once they know it, they go on and try to change it. Well! Do you want to know? Or do you just want what you want?’

Cador scratched his nose once more. ‘I suppose I want what I want.’

‘Haw! Honest! And what do you want?’

‘Well, for myself, glory on the battlefield. A beautiful wife. Land – for, being a younger son, I have only a small holding of my own. And children.’ He paused. ‘But a true knight shouldn’t ask for himself. He should think of his king …’ Cador thought of King Evan for a moment. On second thoughts, King Evan did seem fine … ‘Or at least of other people. So, perhaps I could ask you to help my children. That’s my bargain – your aid, as you’ve offered, on two occasions, now and later, and that you will also be of help to my offspring.’ Cador finished with a flourish, proud of himself for thinking so thoroughly.

Merlin scratched at his stomach. ‘Mmmm. You want a lot. But you ask so nicely. Your offspring, eh? Help them?’ Skrtch, skrtch, he ran his long nails across his flesh. ‘Very well. On my honour as a wizard. I will do so. And enjoy it very much.’

Cador reached out and gripped Merlin’s hand. The wizard’s fingers clamped around his own, so tightly Cador could not pull away. Merlin stared into Cador’s eyes and once again, the young knight saw his reflection there, or, rather, his non-reflection. He could move neither his hand nor his gaze, but was utterly transfixed. His mind swirled in a flux of colours, and he felt himself grow dizzy, as if he was falling.

‘I can tell,’ the enchanter said, his voice clearer now, not the grating of a crow, but the mellow richness of a powerful man, ‘that you do want to know your future. You want a true prophecy of Merlin. So you shall have what you want: you will have One who will be Two. Your hand will cleave them and my hand will join them.’ Merlin released his grip, his voice returned to its disarming scratchiness and its hacking laugh. ‘Go on now. Haw! Isn’t there a dragon you ought to be battling?’

‘It’s a wyvern,’ Cador said, taking a staggering step, then steadying himself against an oak’s trunk.

‘Only an idiot would mistake a dragon for a wyvern. You need only to study its scales; if you see silver interlapped with green, it is a dragon. Only a fool would think otherwise. You had better get moving, young man.’

Reminded of his duty and suddenly aware of how long away he’d been from his king, Cador scarcely paused to say ‘thank you’ before vaulting onto his mount and sinking his spurs into Sleek’s sides. Off the horse leapt, back towards King Evan, back towards the wyvern or dragon or what-have-you. Away from the grove and the wizard.

It was only when the grove had disappeared that the strangeness of it all settled over him. He’d never heard of King Keredic. Or a place called Elmet. Had the old man played a trick on him?

He’d heard it said, never trust any wizard. And now that he was clear of the grove, the stories he’d heard about the old enchanter swam through his mind. King Evan was, after all, Arthur’s descendent, and bards loved to visit Winchester and tell tales of the Round Table or the story of how Merlin, racked with guilt over Arthur’s death, lost his mind, fled from court, and seduced a young woman, who imprisoned him in a tower. Or something like that. Cador was missing a few details. Truth be told, he felt a bit dizzy and now, in addition to worry about the dragon and his king, he worried that he oughtn’t to have tried to bargain with a wizard.

So addled was poor Cador by his time in the clearing that he lost the trail he’d been following and was forced to turn back, looking in vain for any mark of blood or sign of his earlier passage. But it was as if the forest had sprouted new, unbroken twigs, and let fall new, unblemished leaves. He drew Sleek to a halt and considered sounding his horn or crying out for help. In undergrowth this thick, the king’s camp could be twenty feet away and he wouldn’t know it. But to summon help because he was lost? Disgraceful. He’d never hear the end of it. He nudged Sleek to a walk and gave the horse his head, leaning forward to rub the creature’s ears – this horse could always find the way home. He settled into thoughts of Merlin.

And that was how he rode for over an hour, the sun now far past its zenith, and so he would have continued to ride had the scent not arrested him (more accurately, it arrested his horse, but I’ll give Cador some credit. As soon as the horse stopped, Cador noticed the scent). The scent. It reminded him of the rotting disease that once overtook the flocks that grazed near Winchester. The peasants had been forced to throw the many half-decayed sheep onto a massive pyre. There was that self-same acrid smell now, the stinging of burnt hair, and also the smell of utter putrescence (I doubt he knew that word, but I trust you, listener, to appreciate my use of it). He held a scented kerchief to his nose – for no knight as winsome as Cador is ever without a scented kerchief – and listened.

Quiet. A snapping sound, like that of a clumsy man making his way through the woods – but magnified. Snap. Snap. He squeezed Sleek’s sides with his knees, urging the horse forward. Ahead, the forest thinned and Cador rode to the last row of trees, their trunks wreathed with ropes of mistletoe. Below, a bowl-like depression opened, its sides and bottom charred soil, devoid of vegetative growth beyond a few stumps that were blackened with soot or rot. Opposite his position, halfway up the far side of the valley, a dark hole gaped. The opening was surrounded by a tumble of grey stones coated with lichen the colour of verdigris and a smattering of white sticks, sun-bleached dead wood.

Again, the snapping sound bounced across the empty space, and something white shot out of the hole before tumbling to rest by the pile of … not sticks. Not dead wood. But bones. A large pile of bones.

May the Good Lord have mercy.

The dragon’s lair. Cador breathed slowly. If he was very, very careful, he could walk around this lair and proceed to put a safe distance between himself and this dragon. Not that he was fleeing, no, a knight would never flee. He simply needed to return quickly to the king to give him this valuable information about the dragon’s location. He pushed back his fair hair and settled his helm; the metal squeezed against his temples, a reassuring pressure. Then he pulled on his gauntlets and with some difficulty (curse the dragon for taking their squires!) he strapped his shield to his arm, wishing he was wearing full plates of armour and not just this leather and mail, which now seemed rather piddling.

Sleek sensed his fear and stepped lightly, not breaking the slightest twig. Below, snap, snap, another bone shot out. Don’t look, he told himself. But he couldn’t help it. He let his shield drop a few inches and squinted through the visor of his helm. From amid the pile of rocks, a green snout appeared, blunt and ugly as a snake’s head. Massive. The head alone was as big as Cador’s torso. From this distance, only the length of a village green, he could see two nostrils, flat and sinister, and, worse, the mouth below, where now a tongue – grey but streaked red with blood and forked – darted out. It occurred to Cador with a panicked lurch that perhaps the dragon could smell him … and know he was there. Not a pleasant thought. He raised his shield once more, his other hand resting on the pommel of his sword, and squeezed Sleek’s sides with his knees.

Sleek flattened his ears but stepped lightly through the undergrowth around the basin. Cador moved his hand from the pommel of his sword to his breast. He couldn’t feel it through the mail and leather, of course, but he wore a medal about his neck, given to him by his mother before she died, stamped with the image of St Michael. He pressed his hand against his chest and through clenched teeth, began to pray. ‘Holy Michael, Archangel of our Lord and saint who vanquished Satan the Drag …’ He couldn’t quite get that word out, for the very real, very unvanquished dragon in the basin to his right had once again licked the air with its massive tongue. ‘Oh Lord,’ he tried once more, but his throat had gone quite dry. The dragon’s fangs, he noticed at this point, were large. Very large. Perhaps as long as his arm. ‘Help me, help me, help me,’ he croaked. ‘Please … Help me.’

‘Well! Since you said please, I’m happy to help. Haw!’

Merlin’s voice, rough and cawing, grated at his ears and Cador glanced around wildly, expecting to spot the naked old man in the trees. But all that perched there was a crow, clicking its beak at him.

‘You think I’m fool enough to get close to that serpent’s den? Haw!’ the crow snapped, ruffling its feathers. ‘You can hear me, but I’m miles away. This bird has generously agreed to carry my voice. It’s an arrangement we have. Let’s see. You have a spear. Won’t do much good. But maybe it’ll distract her.’

It took Cador a moment to realize that ‘her’ meant the dragon. ‘It’s a she?’

‘Yes, a lady. Haw! It’s a female. Some day it might even be a mother. That makes it all the more important for you to kill her. Battling a dragon takes great courage. There’s only one way to kill her, and that’s to get close. No arrow, not even a lance, can slay a dragon.’

‘Wonderful,’ Cador said, clenching his teeth so they wouldn’t chatter. He rolled his shoulders back and gripped the shaft of the spear he’d just been told was useless. ‘So it sounds as if I oughtn’t to try to kill this dragon by myself. Rather, I’ll get back to King Evan and we can all go …’

‘Ah. No offence to you knights, but I’ve found that you have a tendency to avoid danger if you can. Quite understandable! It may even be judged a sign of intelligence! But I fear that if I let you go back to your king, he will want to gather an even larger army and make this into some sort of quest that might take months. And I have an interest in this dragon being vanquished much sooner than that. She tramples all the greenery and gobbles the mushrooms. Nothing left for poor hungry Merlin. Besides, you asked for my help.’ The crow hopped from one branch of the oak tree to another. Causing, Cador thought, an awful lot of noise.

‘No I didn’t. I was praying.’ He glanced to his left, where gorse grew in thick bunches, making a silent and swift escape impossible. With some reluctance, he glanced to his right. The dragon had extended more of its length from its hole and now its neck, long and sinuous, quested about the basin. Sunlight dappled down, setting its green scales sparkling. It looked almost to be made of liquid, it was so shiny and smooth, and in the way it moved, rolling like an ocean wave. Cador felt himself transfixed …

The crow squawked at him. ‘Haw! Worst prayer I ever heard. Help me? Really. Now listen. You can charge. Maybe you’ll get lucky. But in all likelihood, you won’t. You have to get close.’

‘How close?’ Cador asked. The wind gusted through the trees, setting oak leaves flapping, and he shivered inside his mail shirt. The crow just bunched its feathers up and pulled its neck in, staring implacably down on Cador.

‘Inside the reach of her claws. Right up against her.’

Beneath him, Sleek sidestepped and Cador reached out a gauntleted hand to rub the horse’s neck. He wondered if Sleek was bothered by the foetid smell of the dragon, which the gust of wind had not managed to dispel. ‘That’s very close,’ Cador said, keeping his voice low. He stared down through the branches into the basin. The dragon had, at least, withdrawn back into its lair.

‘You have to strike at her heart.’ The crow’s beak clicked.

Without the sight of those terrible fangs and the horrible tongue, Cador felt his courage returning. What did this wizard, this dirty old man, know about fighting dragons? He gave Sleek one more pat on the neck, ruffling his grey mane, and said, ‘Conjuror or not, I must tell you that I have no intention of killing …’

‘Are you sure?’

And with that teasing phrase, the ground beneath his mount’s hooves gave way, spilling Cador and Sleek down the side of the basin. The horse stumbled, nearly falling. Cador cried, ‘God in heaven!’ The horse found his footing, but, compelled by magic or some force of nature, continued his hurtling descent, with Cador as an unwilling passenger. He got his wits about him, raised his shield and couched his spear; how he wished he were back on the pitch at Winchester, tilting against a human opponent. But ahead of him loomed the dragon, all its hideous length spilling out of its lair, and who had ever jousted with a dragon?

Sleek reared up as they reached the basin’s bottom, and Cador had to pull hard on the reins; the horse gave a terrible shriek but dropped his hooves to the ground, jolting Cador hard. The breath rushed out of him and then he sucked at the air, drawing in a lungful of foul vapour, damp and rotten, the effulgence of the dragon. He coughed; his lungs burned. He felt Sleek restless beneath him, threatening to rear once more, and so he dug his spurs into the horse’s sides, driving them both forward.

Forward, towards the terrible beast, which had itself reared up, its head high above Cador, its belly – the scales there silver-grey-white – exposed. Cador spurred Sleek again, aiming them towards that underside, hoping they were moving fast enough that the dragon couldn’t lower its head to strike in time.

He lifted his shield so that it would guard against the dragon above him. Another shriek echoed in the basin – not Sleek this time, but the dragon – a noise like ten falcons, shredding the air. Cador struck the serpent, his spear hitting the grey-silver scales of the serpent’s underside and bouncing off, as if he were jousting a castle wall. The impact threw his shoulder back, sent him spinning in the saddle, then out of the saddle, tumbling to the ground, knocking the breath out of him again. He rolled over, got his feet beneath him and watched Sleek gallop away. At least one of them was safe.

‘Told you,’ Merlin’s voice mocked, ringing in his ears. ‘Go for the heart.’

Cador thought that if he ran, he might make it; his blow had stunned the dragon. A bit.

Take that back. The dragon was merely swinging away to land a killing blow. Cador drew his sword and dodged as the neck flicked out. Snap of jaws on empty air.

‘Cut inside!’ Merlin insisted.

Cador could summon no better plan, and so, instead of putting distance between himself and the dragon, as every instinct in him screamed to do, he steadied his sword and shield, and, as the neck drew back to strike, he rolled around a rock and darted past the clutch of claws, stepping against the serpent’s belly. He saw the wisdom of Merlin’s advice – this close, the serpent couldn’t wildly lash out at him. But the dragon began a questing descent with its neck, mouth open, fangs (they had to be as long as his legs) bared.

Worse even than the fangs was the tongue: gore-coated grey, thick as his arm. It flicked out, once, twice, almost touching Cador, and he shuddered. Every breath he drew brought him the metallic tang of blood; the blood of his squire, the blood of those helpless horses, and who knew what other victims. He would take vengeance. He was a knight. And so he peered out from behind his rock and studied the dragon’s scales.

The neck stretched up, too high for Cador to see the head (which was fine with him), so he looked at the underbelly, where the silver scales were tightly meshed as fine chainmail. Chainmail. That he knew. Chainmail had weaknesses. It was good against slashes, weak against jabs. Cador ignored the tongue as it flicked him for a third time. He had to aim well. Mail was weakest between links. He saw a few battered scales, perhaps where his spear struck, showing milk-white instead of silver, as if they’d been chipped. There.

He raised his shield to fend off the fangs, leapt, and thrust his sword forward. His shoulder jerked as the blade made contact and he pushed, until the serpent pushed back – its weight crushing him. He fell and rolled away. The ground shook as the dragon collapsed.

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