‘Because so much of mankind’s experience is written in that tongue, Lady, and one of the things an education gives us is access to all the things other folks have known, feared, dreamed and achieved. When you are in trouble it helps to discover someone who has been in the same predicament before. It explains things.’

‘Like what?’ Igraine demanded.

I shrugged. ‘I remember something Guinevere once said to me. I didn’t know what it meant, because it was in Latin, but she translated it, and it explained Arthur exactly. I’ve never forgotten it either.’

‘Well? Go on.’

‘Odi at amo,’ I quoted the unfamiliar words slowly, ‘excrucior.’

‘Which means?’

‘I hate and I love, it hurts. A poet wrote the line, I forget which poet, but Guinevere had read the poem and one day, when we were talking about Arthur, she quoted the line. She understood him exactly, you see.’

‘Did Argante understand him?’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Could she read?’

‘I’m not sure. I don’t remember. Probably not.’

‘What did she look like?’

‘She had very pale skin,’ I said, ‘because she refused to go into the sun. She liked the night, Argante did. And she had very black hair, as shiny as a raven’s feathers.’

‘You say she was small and thin?’ Igraine asked.

‘Very thin, and quite short,’ I said, ‘but the thing I remember most about Argante is that she very rarely smiled. She watched everything and missed nothing, and there was always a calculating look on her face. People mistook that look for cleverness, but it wasn’t cleverness at all. She was merely the youngest of seven or eight daughters and so she was always worried that she would be left out. She was looking for her share all the time, and all the time she believed she was not receiving it.’

Igraine grimaced. ‘You make her sound horrid!’

‘She was greedy, bitter and very young,’ I said, ‘but she was also beautiful. She had a delicacy that was very touching.’ I paused and sighed. ‘Poor Arthur. He did pick his women very badly. Except for Ailleann, of course, but then he didn’t pick her. She was given to him as a slave.’

‘What happened to Ailleann?’

‘She died in the Saxon War.’

‘Killed?’ Igraine shuddered.

‘Of the plague,’ I said. ‘It was a very normal death.’

Christ.