the back of his neck.
At the first gate leading to the citadel, they sat proudly on their fine horses - one white and one black - and proclaimed their lineage clearly for all the men-at-arms to hear.
‘We crave entrance,’ the dark-haired twin demanded calmly. ‘Our names are Balyn and Balan ap Cerdic, ap Llanwith of blessed memory, come to the High King at our mother’s bidding to offer our swords to our liege lord.’
While the warriors who made up the guard were unfamiliar with the twins, every member of the garrison had heard tales of the legendary King Llanwith of the Ordovice clan who had assisted the young Artor to assume the throne of Britain. Rumour had long hinted that Anna, the matriarch of the tribe, was kin of Artor, a linkage that added a layer of mystery to an already distinguished family. The guards at the entrance to the fortifications straightened respectfully.
With low bows of homage, the watch permitted the twins to pass through the entrance to the citadel.
Upwards, towards the crest of the tor, the two men rode abreast of each other. One had hair of rich dark brown, bordering on black, and the other boasted hair of honey-red. One guided his horse with his right hand and one used his left, and the warriors on the walls remembered that their mother was rumoured to be the sister of the High King and the unacknowledged daughter of the previous ruler, Uther Pendragon. As they searched the faces of the twins, the warriors recognized that the shape and colour of the young men’s grey irises belonged to only one other man in all these lands - Artor, the High King, who ruled the Cadbury fortress.
‘The scions of legend are once again among us,’ one old warrior said ruminatively when they had passed. He spat on his hands. ‘We’ll soon have some excitement.’
‘They’re fair young men, fresh fodder for the queen,’ another responded wickedly.
‘I’d keep my mouth shut if I were in your boots, Rhys, or the king will close it permanently. If Lord Artor chooses to ignore the behaviour of his wife, then who are we to notice?’ a third veteran warned.
‘May the gods send a fever to see that slut off,’ Rhys said quietly. ‘And then, perhaps, Cadbury can be hale and hearty again.’
Ignorant of the stir they were causing, Balyn and Balan rode higher up the defensive walls, noting with soldierly pleasure the cunning and strength in the earthwork construction that had been planned by Myrddion Merlinus so many years before. Then, abruptly, they realized they had reached the summit. Before them stood the wooden tower of a stone church with coloured glass set into the narrow windows of the building. Beside the Christian sanctuary, the palace of the High King towered over the land in tiers of dressed stone and timber.
At the carved doorway of the great hall, resplendent with its freshly painted dragons, the twins were halted by two tall warriors who eyed them from head to heels with cautious, unfriendly eyes. One warrior was close to fifty, with uncut hair of an extraordinary white-blonde that was plaited to his hips and bound with silver. The other warrior was some years younger and open of face, with an upper body that was heavily muscled and hardened with exercise. Both warriors wore the king’s dragon on their armbands and matching torcs could be glimpsed at their throats under the woollen tunics that covered their mail shirts.
‘Stand aside, good men,’ Balyn ordered imperiously. ‘We have ridden untended from Viroconium to offer our services to the High King.’
Balyn’s arrogance made both guards bristle. No one entered Artor’s hall without permission, however impeccable their lineage.
‘Please?’ Balan added, and his tanned face split in a wide grin.
Percivale and Gareth grinned instinctively in response to the darker twin whose hair had such shine and gloss, and whose grey eyes were like sunlight on a chill sea.
After a lifetime of service to the High King, Gareth knew the
At the first gate leading to the citadel, they sat proudly on their fine horses - one white and one black - and proclaimed their lineage clearly for all the men-at-arms to hear.
‘We crave entrance,’ the dark-haired twin demanded calmly. ‘Our names are Balyn and Balan ap Cerdic, ap Llanwith of blessed memory, come to the High King at our mother’s bidding to offer our swords to our liege lord.’
While the warriors who made up the guard were unfamiliar with the twins, every member of the garrison had heard tales of the legendary King Llanwith of the Ordovice clan who had assisted the young Artor to assume the throne of Britain. Rumour had long hinted that Anna, the matriarch of the tribe, was kin of Artor, a linkage that added a layer of mystery to an already distinguished family. The guards at the entrance to the fortifications straightened respectfully.
With low bows of homage, the watch permitted the twins to pass through the entrance to the citadel.
Upwards, towards the crest of the tor, the two men rode abreast of each other. One had hair of rich dark brown, bordering on black, and the other boasted hair of honey-red. One guided his horse with his right hand and one used his left, and the warriors on the walls remembered that their mother was rumoured to be the sister of the High King and the unacknowledged daughter of the previous ruler, Uther Pendragon. As they searched the faces of the twins, the warriors recognized that the shape and colour of the young men’s grey irises belonged to only one other man in all these lands - Artor, the High King, who ruled the Cadbury fortress.
‘The scions of legend are once again among us,’ one old warrior said ruminatively when they had passed. He spat on his hands. ‘We’ll soon have some excitement.’
‘They’re fair young men, fresh fodder for the queen,’ another responded wickedly.
‘I’d keep my mouth shut if I were in your boots, Rhys, or the king will close it permanently. If Lord Artor chooses to ignore the behaviour of his wife, then who are we to notice?’ a third veteran warned.
‘May the gods send a fever to see that slut off,’ Rhys said quietly. ‘And then, perhaps, Cadbury can be hale and hearty again.’
Ignorant of the stir they were causing, Balyn and Balan rode higher up the defensive walls, noting with soldierly pleasure the cunning and strength in the earthwork construction that had been planned by Myrddion Merlinus so many years before. Then, abruptly, they realized they had reached the summit. Before them stood the wooden tower of a stone church with coloured glass set into the narrow windows of the building. Beside the Christian sanctuary, the palace of the High King towered over the land in tiers of dressed stone and timber.
At the carved doorway of the great hall, resplendent with its freshly painted dragons, the twins were halted by two tall warriors who eyed them from head to heels with cautious, unfriendly eyes. One warrior was close to fifty, with uncut hair of an extraordinary white-blonde that was plaited to his hips and bound with silver. The other warrior was some years younger and open of face, with an upper body that was heavily muscled and hardened with exercise. Both warriors wore the king’s dragon on their armbands and matching torcs could be glimpsed at their throats under the woollen tunics that covered their mail shirts.
‘Stand aside, good men,’ Balyn ordered imperiously. ‘We have ridden untended from Viroconium to offer our services to the High King.’
Balyn’s arrogance made both guards bristle. No one entered Artor’s hall without permission, however impeccable their lineage.
‘Please?’ Balan added, and his tanned face split in a wide grin.
Percivale and Gareth grinned instinctively in response to the darker twin whose hair had such shine and gloss, and whose grey eyes were like sunlight on a chill sea.
After a lifetime of service to the High King, Gareth knew the
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