Arthur stood and held his arms towards Morgan. She was older than her brother, who was still only twenty-five or twenty-six years old, but when he offered to embrace her she began to cry behind her gold mask that clashed lightly against Arthur’s helmet as they clasped each other. He held her tight and patted her back. “Dear Morgan,” I heard him say, ‘dear, sweet Morgan.”
I had never realized how lonely Morgan was until I saw her weep in her brother’s arms.
He pulled gently away from her grip then used both his gloved hands to lift the silver-grey helmet from his head. “I have a gift for you,” he told Morgan, ‘at least I think I do, unless Hygwydd’s stolen it. Where are you, Hygwydd?”
The servant Hygwydd ran forward and was given the white-plumed helmet in exchange for a necklace of bears’ teeth that were set in gold sockets on a gold chain that Arthur hung around his sister’s neck. “Something beautiful for my lovely sister,” he said, and then he insisted on knowing who Ralla was, and when he heard about her baby’s death his face showed such pain and sympathy that Ralla began to weep and Arthur impulsively hugged her and almost crushed the baby King against his scale-armoured chest. Then Gwlyddyn was introduced, and Gwlyddyn told Arthur how I had killed a Silurian to protect Mordred and so Arthur swung round to thank me.
And, for the first time, I looked full into his face.
It was a face of kindness. That was my first impression. No, that is what Igraine wants me to write. In truth my first impression was of sweat, lots of sweat come from wearing metal armour on a summer’s day, but after the sweat I noticed how kind he looked. You trusted Arthur on sight. That was why women always liked Arthur, not because he was good-looking, for he was not overly handsome, but because he looked at you with genuine interest and an obvious benevolence. He had a strong, bony face that was full of enthusiasm, and a full head of dark brown hair that when I first saw him was sweat-plastered tight to his skull, thanks to his helmet’s leather liner. His eyes were brown, he had a long nose and a heavy, clean-shaven jaw, but his most noticeable feature was his mouth. It was unnaturally large and had a full set of teeth. He was proud of his teeth and cleaned them every day with salt when he could find it, and with plain water when he could not. It was a big face and a strong one, yet what impressed me most about him was that look of kindness and the impish humour in his eyes. There was an air of enjoyment about Arthur, something in his face radiated a happiness that embraced you in its aura. I noticed then, and ever after, how men and women became more cheerful when Arthur was in their company. Everyone became more optimistic, there was more laughter, and when he departed a dullness would ensue, yet Arthur was no great wit, nor a storyteller, he was simply Arthur, a good man of infectious confidence, impatient will and iron-hard resolve. You did not notice that hardness at first, and even Arthur himself pretended it was not there, yet it was. A slew of battlefield graves bear witness to it.
“Gwlyddyn tells me you’re a Saxon!” he teased me.
“Lord,” was all I could say as I dropped to my knees.
He stooped and lifted me by the shoulders. His touch was firm. “I’m no King, Derfel,” he said, ‘you don’t kneel to me, but I should kneel to you for risking your life to save our King.” He smiled. “For that I thank you.” He had the knack of making you feel that no one else in the world mattered to him as much as you did and I was already lost in worship of him. “How old are you?” he asked me.
“Fifteen, I think.”
“But big enough for twenty years.” He smiled. “Who taught you to fight?”
“Hywel,” I said, “Merlin’s steward.”
“Ah! The best teacher! He taught me too, and how is good Hywel?” The question was asked eagerly, but I had neither the words nor courage to answer.