‘You should have known better than to drop your sword on a battlefield,’ said Aubertain. ‘And as for running among mounted knights. . . damn stupid! Lucky no one removed your head from your shoulders.’You were there?’Where else would I be when my King goes to war?’You were the knight who saved me,’ I said, remembering the collision which stopped the lance piercing my chest. ‘You charged your horse into the lancer.’He shrugged. ‘I’m a stubborn man, Owen, but I’ll not see my sons killed – even if they are fighting on the wrong side. Welcome home, son. Have you seen your mother yet?’I don’t think I was truly complete until that moment. Megan told me once that there was a man I must meet who would make me whole, and she was right. And now I had found him again. He
stood and opened his arms and I embraced him, the last of my bitterness vanishing.
My brother Braife had been one of the knights slain by Mace in that last charge, but my father bore the Morningstar no ill-will.
‘He was a man, by God,’ he said, as we sat by the hearth fire on a cold winter’s evening. ‘I’ll never forget that ride. And I’m grateful to him for what he did for you. I think he made a man of you, Owen.’Aye, father. I think he did.’I stayed in the south until my father died. It happened seven years after I came home, and only weeks following the death of my mother from the yellow fever. I moved back to the Highlands then, and built my house close to the oak beneath which is buried the skull of Golgoleth.
I have lived long, ghost, and I have seen much, but even I am beginning to believe in the song. Every spring, when the celebrations begin, I think of Mace, his easy smile and his casual charm.
And I listen to fathers telling their sons that one day, when the realm is threatened, the Morningstar will come again.
Oh, ghost, how I wish I could be there when he does!
Epilogue Agraine awoke an hour before dawn, yawned and stretched. The window was open, the air cold and fresh, stars gleaming in the winter sky. He was cold, yet excited by the prospect of a morning meeting with the legendary Owen Odell. Swiftly he dressed, pulling on his warm woollen tunic and troos, his socks of softest wool and his boots of shining leather. He needed a shave and wondered whether the strange old man would allow him the use of one of the servants. Probably not, he decided. These Highlanders were a curious breed.
Hungry, the young nobleman made his way downstairs to the larder, helping himself to a sweet honey-cake and washing it down with soured apple juice.
What a loathsome place, he decided as he opened the shuttered window and gazed out over the night-dark mountains. No theatres, no palaces of lascivious amusements, no dances, no readings of the latest works of literature. What clods these people must be, in their primitive dwellings, with their dull little lives.
But the journey would be worth it for the book. He would tour no taverns, nor tell saga stories around flickering camp-fires. Oh, no. His father would pay a hundred monks to copy the tale and bind it in leather for sale and private readings among the nobility.
First, however, there was the old man. Agraine smiled. It would be easy to charm the ancient poet – soft words, a honey tongue. The story would spill out soon enough. God knows, the elderly love to prattle!
Taking a second cake, the young man mounted the stairs, approaching the room where first he had spoken with Owen Odell. The door was ajar and he heard voices.
Moving silently forward he leaned in close to the crack by the door-hinge, closing his right eye and straining to see into the room. But a floorboard creaked and the voices within fell silent.
‘Gome in, Agraine,’ called the old poet.
Sheepishly the young man opened the door.
‘I did not mean to . . .’ His voice trailed away, for standing in the centre of the room was a golden-haired woman of lustrous beauty, clothed only in a shimmering gown of green silk. Agraine’s mouth fell open and clumsily he executed a bow. ‘I am sorry, Lord Odell. I had no idea you had other guests.’It was a surprise to me, my boy,’ the old man told him. This is an old friend of mine . . . Megan.’Agraine was sharp enough to spot the lie, but he kept his thoughts to himself and smiled at the woman. ‘It is a great pleasure, my lady. Do you live close?’She laughed, the sound like sweet music. ‘Very close. And I have come to invite . . . Lord Odell… to visit my home. I was just explaining it to him when we heard you arrive.’The old man chuckled as if at some private jest. ‘You will, I hope, excuse me, young man. For I must leave you to break your fast alone.’It is freezing outside, and there is deep snow in the valley,’ stuttered Agraine, unwilling to allow the vision to depart from his company.