It is difficult now, looking back from this distance in time, to remember my first real impression of Ambrosius. He would be at that time not much more than thirty years old, but I was only twelve, and to me, of course, he already seemed venerable. But I think that in fact he did seem older than his years; this was a natural result of the life he had led, and the heavy responsibility he had borne since he was a little younger than myself. There were lines round his eyes, and two heavy furrows between his brows which spoke of decision and perhaps temper, and his mouth was hard and straight, and usually unsmiling. His brows were dark like his hair, and could bar his eyes formidably with shadow. There was the faint white line of a scar running from his left ear half over his cheekbone. His nose looked Roman, high-bridged and prominent, but his skin was tanned rather than olive, and there was something about his eyes which spoke of black Celt rather than Roman. It was a bleak face, a face (as I would find) that could cloud with frustration or anger, or even with the hard control that he exerted over these, but it was a face to trust. He was not a man one could love easily, certainly not a man to like, but a man either to hate or to worship. You either fought him, or followed him. But it had to be one or the other; once you came within reach of him, you had no peace.

All this I had to learn. I remember little now of what I thought of him, except for the deep eyes watching me past the lamp, and his hands clasped on the lions’ heads. But I remember every word that was said.

He looked me up and down. “Myrddin, son of Niniane, daughter of the King of South Wales . . . And privy, they tell me, to the secrets of the palace at Maridunum?”

“I—did I say that? I told them I lived there, and heard things sometimes.”

“My men brought you across the Narrow Sea because you said you had secrets which would be useful to me. Was that not true?”

“Sir,” I said a little desperately, “I don’t know what might be useful to you. To them I spoke the language I thought they would understand. I thought they were going to kill me. I was saving my life.”

“I see. Well, now you are here, and safely. Why did you leave your home?”

“Because once my grandfather had died, it was not safe for me there. My mother was going into a nunnery, and Camlach my uncle had already tried to kill me, and his servants killed my friend.”

“Your friend?”

“My servant. His name was Cerdic. He was a slave.”

“Ah, yes. They told me about that. They said you set fire to the palace. You were perhaps a little—drastic?”