“And this young man? He called you ‘cousin’.”

“That was a form of speech. We are related, but not nearly. You probably also heard him call me ‘bastard’.”

“Wait a minute.” The new voice came from behind me, among the crowd. An elderly man with thin grey hair, nobody I recognised, pushed his way to the front. “I know him. He’s telling the truth. Why, that’s Myrddin Emrys, sure enough, that was the old King’s grandson.” Then to me, “You won’t remember me, sir. I was your grandfather’s steward, one of them. I tell you this—” he stretched his neck, like a hen, peering up at Blackbeard—“King’s men or no King’s men, you’ve no business to lay a hand on this young gentleman. He’s told you the truth. He left Maridunum five years ago—that’s right, five, it was the night the old King died—and nobody heard tell where he’d gone. But I’ll take any oath you like he would never raise a hand against King Vortigern. Why, he was training to be a priest, and never took arms in his life. And if he wants a quiet drink with Prince Dinias, why, they’re related, as he told you, and who else would he drink with, to get the news of home?” He nodded at me, kindly. “Yes, indeed, that’s Myrddin Emrys, that’s a grown man now instead of a little boy, but I’d know him anywhere. And let me tell you, sir, I’m mightily glad to see you safe. It was feared you’d died in the fire.”

Blackbeard hadn’t even glanced at him. He was directly between me and the door. He never took his eyes off me. “Myrddin Emrys. The old King’s grandson.” He said it slowly. “And a bastard? Whose son, then?”

There was no point in denying it. I had recognised the steward now. He was nodding at me, pleased with himself. I said: “My mother was the King’s daughter, Niniane.”

The black eyes narrowed. “Is this true?”

“Quite true, quite true.” It was the steward, his goodwill to me patent in his pale stupid eyes.

Blackbeard turned to me again. I saw the next question forming on his lips. My heart was thumping, and I could feel the blood stealing up into my face. I tried to will it down.

“And your father?”

“I do not know.” Perhaps he would only think that the blood in my face was shame.

“Speak carefully, now,” said Blackbeard. “You must know. Who got you?”

“I do not know.”

He regarded me. “Your mother, the King’s daughter. You remember her?”

“I remember her well.”

“And she never told you? You expect us to believe this?”