“She never spoke of him, to me or any man. They say he was the Prince of Darkness.”

I expected the usual reaction to that, the crossed fingers or the quick look over the shoulder. He did neither. He laughed.

“Then no wonder you talk of helping kings to their kingdoms, and dream of gods under the stars.” He turned aside then, with a swirl of the big cloak. “Bring him along, one of you. Uther, you may as well give him your cloak again before he dies in front of our eyes.”

“Do you think I’d touch it after him, even if he were the Prince of Darkness in person?” asked Uther.

Ambrosius laughed. “If you ride that poor beast of yours in your usual fashion you’ll be warm enough without. And if your cloak is dabbled with the blood of the bull, then it’s not for you, tonight, is it?”

“Are you blaspheming?”

“I?” said Ambrosius, with a sort of cold blankness.

His brother opened his mouth, thought better of it, shrugged, and vaulted into his grey’s saddle. Someone flung the cloak to me, and—as I struggled with shaking hands to wrap it round me again—seized me, bundled me up in it anyhow, and threw me up like a parcel to some rider on a wheeling horse. Ambrosius swung to the saddle of a big black.

“Come, gentlemen.”

The black stallion jumped forward, and Ambrosius’ cloak flew out. The grey pounded after him. The rest of the cavalcade strung out at a hand-gallop along the track back to the town.

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE