‘He was proud of you, Lady,’ I said awkwardly. ‘He revelled in your beauty.’

‘He could have had a statue made of me if that’s all he wanted! A statue with milk ducts that he could clamp his infants onto!’

‘He loved you,’ I protested.

She stared at me and I thought she was about to erupt into a blistering anger, but instead she smiled wanly. ‘He worshipped me, Derfel,’ she said tiredly, ‘and that is not the same thing as being loved.’ She sat suddenly, collapsing onto a bench beside the wooden chest. ‘And being worshipped, Derfel, is very tiresome. But he seems to have found a new goddess now.’

‘He’s done what, Lady?’

‘You didn’t know?’ She seemed surprised, then plucked up the letter. ‘Here, read it.’

I took the parchment from her. It carried no date, just the superscription Moridunum, showing that it had been written from Oengus mac Airem’s capital. The letter was in Arthur’s solid handwriting and was as cold as the snow that lay so thick on the windowsill. ‘You should know, Lady,’ he had written, ‘that I am renouncing you as my wife and taking Argante, daughter of Oengus mac Airem, instead. I do not renounce Gwydre, only you.’ That was all. It was not even signed.

‘You really didn’t know?’ Guinevere asked me.

‘No, Lady,’ I said. I was far more astonished than Guinevere. I had heard men say that Arthur should take another wife, but he had said nothing to me and I felt offended that he had not trusted me. I felt offended and disappointed. ‘I didn’t know,’ I insisted.

‘Someone opened the letter,’ Guinevere said in wry amusement. ‘You can see they left a smudge of dirt on the bottom. Arthur wouldn’t do that.’ She leaned back so that her springing red hair was crushed against the wall. ‘Why is he marrying?’ she asked.

I shrugged. ‘A man should be married, Lady.’

‘Nonsense. You don’t think any the less of Galahad because he’s never married.’

‘A man needs…’ I began, then my voice tailed away.

‘I know what a man needs,’ Guinevere said with amusement. ‘But why is Arthur marrying now? You think he loves this girl?’

‘I hope so, Lady.’

She smiled. ‘He’s marrying, Derfel, to prove that he doesn’t love me.’

I believed her, but I dared not agree with her. ‘I’m sure it’s love, Lady,’ I said instead.

She laughed at that. ‘How old is this Argante?’

‘Fifteen?’ I guessed. ‘Maybe only fourteen?’

She frowned, thinking back. ‘I thought she was meant to marry Mordred?’

‘I thought so too,’ I answered, for I remembered Oengus offering her as a bride to our King.

‘But why should Oengus marry the child to a limping idiot like Mordred when he can put her into Arthur’s bed?’ Guinevere said. ‘Only fifteen, you think?’

‘If that.’

‘Is she pretty?’