I said, stammering: “It wasn’t you. I’m sorry, it—I see now, I must have dreamed it. No one would come with a rope, and a short knife, alone against a bull . . . And no man could drag a bull’s head up and slit its throat . . . It was one of my—it was a dream. And it wasn’t you, I can see that now. I—I thought you were the man in the cap. I’m sorry.”

The men were muttering now, but no longer with threats. The young officer said, in quite a different tone from any he had used before: “What was he like, this ‘man in the cap’?”

His brother said quickly: “Never mind. Not now.” He put out a hand, took me by the chin, and lifted my face. “You say your name is Myrddin. Where are you from?”

“From Wales, sir.”

“Ah. So you’re the boy they brought from Maridunum?”

“Yes. You knew about me? Oh!” Made stupid by the cold and by bewilderment, I made the discovery I should have made long ago. My flesh shivered like a nervous pony’s with cold, and a curious sensation, part excitement, part fear. “You must be the Count. You must be Ambrosius himself.”

He did not trouble to answer. “How old are you?”

“Twelve, sir.”

“And who are you, Myrddin, to talk of offering me service? What can you offer me, that I should not cut you down here and now, and let these gentlemen get in out of the cold?”

“Who I am makes no difference, sir. I am the grandson of the King of South Wales, but he is dead. My uncle Camlach is King now, but that’s no help to me either; he wants me dead. So I’d not serve your turn even as a hostage. It’s not who I am, but what I am that matters. I have something to offer you, my lord. You will see, if you let me live till morning.”

“Ah, yes, valuable information, and five languages. And dreams, too, it seems.” The words were mocking, but he was not smiling. “The old King’s grandson, you say? And Camlach not your father? Nor Dyved, either, surely? I never knew the old man had a grandson, barring Camlach’s baby. From what my spies told me I took you to be his bastard.”

“He used sometimes to pass me off as his own bastard—to save my mother’s shame, he said, but she never saw it as shame, and she should know. My mother was Niniane, the old King’s daughter.”

“Ah.” A pause. “Was?”

I said: “She’s still alive, but by now she’s in St. Peter’s nunnery. You might say she joined them years ago, but she’s only been allowed to leave the palace since the old King died.”

“And your father?”