Someone must have drawn the curtains back from the door. The sentries were out of sight, the camp silent. The stone doorposts and the heavy lintel lying across them framed a blue night burning with stars. All round us the vast shadows reared, giant stones linked like pleached trees where some hands long since gone had cut the signs of the gods of air and earth and water. Someone was speaking quietly; a king’s voice; Ambrosius’ voice. It had been speaking for some time; vaguely, like echoes in the dark, I heard it.

“. . . and while the King lies there under the stone the Kingdom shall not fall. For as long and longer than it has stood before, the Dance shall stand again, with the light striking it from the living heaven. And I shall bring back the great stone to lay upon the grave-place, and this shall be the heart of Britain, and from this time on all the kings shall be one King and all the gods one God. And you shall live again in Britain, and for ever, for we will make between us a King whose name will stand as long as the Dance stands, and who will be more than a symbol; he will be a shield and a living sword.”

It was not the King’s voice; it was my own. The King was still sitting on the other side of the map-strewn table, his hands still and flat on the papers, his eyes dark under the straight brows. Between us the lamp dimmed, flickering in a draught from the door.

I stared at him, while my sight slowly cleared. “What did I say?”

He shook his head, smiling, and reached for the wine jug.

I said irritably: “It comes on me like a fainting fit on a pregnant girl. I’m sorry. Tell me what I said?”

“You gave me a kingdom. And you gave me immortality. What more is there? Drink now, Ambrosius’ prophet.”

“Not wine. Is there water?”

“Here.” He got to his feet. “And now you must go and sleep, and so must I. I leave early for Maridunum. You are sure you have no messages?”

“Tell Cadal he is to give you the silver cross with the amethysts.”

We faced one another in a small silence. I was almost as tall as he. He said, gently: “So now it is goodbye.”

“How does one say goodbye to a King who has been given immortality?”

He gave me a strange look. “Shall we meet again, then?”

“We shall meet again, Ambrosius.”

It was then I knew that what I had prophesied for him was his death.

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER TEN