“And for lodging? They told me in Blestium that there was a monastery beside the bridge. I was planning to sleep there. If I make for that now, then follow the river along the next day, the way you’ve marked there –”

The smith shook his head. “That colt won’t run, master. The monastery’s on the far side, so you’ll miss that night’s lodging anyway. Best turn away here, where I’ve put the mark. And here –” the stick prodded into the mud again – “you’ll likely find better lodging than at any monastery. The lady’s not at home now, being as how she’s fallen foul of her good brother, and he’s had her mewed up elsewhere these two years past, but those that serve her will take you in, sure enough, and give you good lodgement. And it’s a soft place to lie, they say, for all it’s called the Dark Tower.”

If there was something sly about the smith’s grin, Alexander did not notice it. “The Dark Tower? Lady? What lady?”

“The Lady Morgan, she that’s own sister to Arthur himself. Queen Morgan, I should have said; she was Urbgen’s queen in Rheged till he put her aside over some tangle of a lover and a try at stealing the King’s sword of state, the one they call Caliburn. It was over that she fell foul of her brother Arthur, so you’d be wiser not to talk of him, young sir, when you’re a guest at the Dark Tower.”

“Yes, of course. Of course I understand,” said Alexander, who did not understand at all, but who was finding this, his first brush with the great world, and the mention of famous names, exhilarating. It is possible that, even had the ruined bridge not forced him to turn aside for Queen Morgan’s castle, he would have ridden there rather than seek lodging in the tame purlieus of a monastery. “But you said that the lady herself – the queen – would not be there?” He was careful to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“Well, she wasn’t, last time any news came by from there,” said the smith. “But there has been other news. There’s been coming and going, and a tide of urgent messages passing, between the south-west and the parts north-west of here, up into Northgalis and then further up still, to the edges of Rheged. And there’s been talk of meetings …” Here he paused, and then spat to one side, making a sign which Alexander recognised as one his Welsh groom made against magic … “Midnight meetings, and spells, and witches flying through the air when the moon’s down, and gathering in some spot to brew evil against their enemies.”

“And you believe all that?” asked Alexander.

“As to that,” said the smith gruffly, “living as I do, here by the crossway ford, I see a sight of strange things. Who am I to say what to believe and what not to believe? But if I was you I’d go carefully, young master, and if you do stay over at the castle, remember what they say about Queen Morgan! Faery they call her, and the word goes that she’s readier with her spells than ever was her sister Morgause, the witch from Orkney that tangled with Merlin and was hacked to pieces in her bed by her own son.” And he made the sign again.