“Not Prince Arthur,” I said firmly, being careful to use the title on which Guinevere insisted.
“He is a fool about jewellery,” she had said tartly, and then had asked me if Arthur had sent me to spy on her.
We walked on around the colonnade. We were alone. A warrior named Lanval was the commander of the Princess’s guard and he had wanted to leave his men inside the courtyard, but Guinevere insisted they leave. “Let them start a rumour about us,” she told me happily, but then had scowled. “I sometimes think Lanval is ordered to spy on me.”
“Lanval merely watches over you, Lady,” I told her, ‘for upon your safety depends Prince Arthur’s happiness, and upon his happiness rests a kingdom.”
“That is pretty, Derfel. I like that.” She spoke half mockingly. We walked on. A bowl of rose petals soaking in water wafted a pretty scent under the colonnade that offered welcome shade from the hot sun. “Do you want to see Lunete?” Guinevere suddenly asked me.
“I doubt she wants to see me.”
“Probably not. But you’re not married, are you?”
“No, Lady, we never married.”
“Then it doesn’t matter, does it?” she asked, though what did not matter she did not say and I did not ask. “I wanted to see you, Derfel,” Guinevere said earnestly.
“You flatter me, Lady,” I said.
“Your words get prettier and prettier!” She clapped her hands, then wrinkled her nose. “Tell me, Derfel, do you ever wash?”
I blushed. “Yes, Lady.”
“You stink of leather and blood and sweat and dust. It can be quite a nice aroma, but not today. It’s too hot. Would you like my ladies to give you a bath? We do it the Roman way, with lots of sweat and scraping. It’s quite tiring.”
I deliberately moved a step away from her. “I’ll find a stream, Lady.”
“But I did want to see you,” she said. She stepped back next to me and even put her arm into mine. “Tell me about Nimue.”
“Nimue?” I was surprised by the question.
“Can she really do magic?” Guinevere asked eagerly. The Princess was as tall as I was and her face, so handsome and high-boned, was close to mine. Proximity to Guinevere was overpowering, like the heavy disturbance of the senses given by the drink of Mithras. Her red hair was scented with perfume and her startling green eyes were lined with a gum that had been mixed with lamp black so that they seemed larger. “Can she do magic?” Guinevere asked again.
“I think so.”
“Think!” She stepped away from me, disappointed. “Only think?”
The scar on my left hand throbbed and I did not know what to say.
Guinevere laughed. “Tell me the truth, Derfel. I need to know!” She put her arm back into mine and walked me on beneath the arcade’s shade. “That horrible man Bishop Sansum is trying to make us all Christians and I won’t put up with it! He wants us to feel guilty all the time and I keep telling him I’ve nothing to be guilty about, but the Christians are getting more powerful. They’re building a new church here! No, they’re doing worse than that. Come!” She turned impulsively and clapped her hands. Slaves ran into the courtyard and Guinevere ordered her cloak and dogs brought to her. “I’ll show you something, Derfel, so you can see for yourself what that wretched little Bishop is doing to our kingdom.”
She donned a mauve woollen cloak to hide the thin linen shift, then took the leashes of a brace of deer hounds that panted beside her with their long tongues lolling between sharp teeth. The villa’s gates were thrown open and with two slaves following and a quartet of Lanval’s guards hastily forming post on either side of us, we went down Durnovaria’s main street which was handsomely paved with wide stones and guttered to take the rain down to the river that ran to the east of the town. The open-fronted shops were full of goods: shoes, a butchery, salt, a potter. Some houses had collapsed, but most were in good repair, perhaps because the presence of Mordred and Guinevere had brought the town a new prosperity. There were beggars, of course, who shuffled close on stumps, risking the guards’ spear-staves in order to grab the copper coins distributed by Guinevere’s two slaves. Guinevere herself, her red hair bared to the sun, strode down the hill with barely a glance at the commotion her presence caused. “See that house?” Guinevere gestured towards a handsome two-storey building on the northern side of the street. “That’s where Nabur lives, and where our little King farts and vomits.” She shuddered. “Mordred is a particularly unpleasant child. He limps and he never stops screaming. There! Can you hear him?” I could indeed hear a child wailing, though whether it was Mordred I could not tell. “Now, come through here,” Guinevere commanded and she plunged through a small crowd who stared at her from the side of the street then climbed over a pile of broken stone that stood next to Nabur’s handsome house.