The Story of Silence

The crow squawked at him. ‘Haw! Worst prayer I ever heard. Help me? Really. Now listen. You can charge. Maybe you’ll get lucky. But in all likelihood, you won’t. You have to get close.’

‘How close?’ Cador asked. The wind gusted through the trees, setting oak leaves flapping, and he shivered inside his mail shirt. The crow just bunched its feathers up and pulled its neck in, staring implacably down on Cador.

‘Inside the reach of her claws. Right up against her.’

Beneath him, Sleek sidestepped and Cador reached out a gauntleted hand to rub the horse’s neck. He wondered if Sleek was bothered by the foetid smell of the dragon, which the gust of wind had not managed to dispel. ‘That’s very close,’ Cador said, keeping his voice low. He stared down through the branches into the basin. The dragon had, at least, withdrawn back into its lair.

‘You have to strike at her heart.’ The crow’s beak clicked.

Without the sight of those terrible fangs and the horrible tongue, Cador felt his courage returning. What did this wizard, this dirty old man, know about fighting dragons? He gave Sleek one more pat on the neck, ruffling his grey mane, and said, ‘Conjuror or not, I must tell you that I have no intention of killing …’

‘Are you sure?’

And with that teasing phrase, the ground beneath his mount’s hooves gave way, spilling Cador and Sleek down the side of the basin. The horse stumbled, nearly falling. Cador cried, ‘God in heaven!’ The horse found his footing, but, compelled by magic or some force of nature, continued his hurtling descent, with Cador as an unwilling passenger. He got his wits about him, raised his shield and couched his spear; how he wished he were back on the pitch at Winchester, tilting against a human opponent. But ahead of him loomed the dragon, all its hideous length spilling out of its lair, and who had ever jousted with a dragon?

Sleek reared up as they reached the basin’s bottom, and Cador had to pull hard on the reins; the horse gave a terrible shriek but dropped his hooves to the ground, jolting Cador hard. The breath rushed out of him and then he sucked at the air, drawing in a lungful of foul vapour, damp and rotten, the effulgence of the dragon. He coughed; his lungs burned. He felt Sleek restless beneath him, threatening to rear once more, and so he dug his spurs into the horse’s sides, driving them both forward.

Forward, towards the terrible beast, which had itself reared up, its head high above Cador, its belly – the scales there silver-grey-white – exposed. Cador spurred Sleek again, aiming them towards that underside, hoping they were moving fast enough that the dragon couldn’t lower its head to strike in time.

He lifted his shield so that it would guard against the dragon above him. Another shriek echoed in the basin – not Sleek this time, but the dragon – a noise like ten falcons, shredding the air. Cador struck the serpent, his spear hitting the grey-silver scales of the serpent’s underside and bouncing off, as if he were jousting a castle wall. The impact threw his shoulder back, sent him spinning in the saddle, then out of the saddle, tumbling to the ground, knocking the breath out of him again. He rolled over, got his feet beneath him and watched Sleek gallop away. At least one of them was safe.

‘Told you,’ Merlin’s voice mocked, ringing in his ears. ‘Go for the heart.’

Cador thought that if he ran, he might make it; his blow had stunned the dragon. A bit.

Take that back. The dragon was merely swinging away to land a killing blow. Cador drew his sword and dodged as the neck flicked out. Snap of jaws on empty air.

‘Cut inside!’ Merlin insisted.

Cador could summon no better plan, and so, instead of putting distance between himself and the dragon, as every instinct in him screamed to do, he steadied his sword and shield, and, as the neck drew back to strike, he rolled around a rock and darted past the clutch of claws, stepping against the serpent’s belly. He saw the wisdom of Merlin’s advice – this close, the serpent couldn’t wildly lash out at him. But the dragon began a questing descent with its neck, mouth open, fangs (they had to be as long as his legs) bared.

Worse even than the fangs was the tongue: gore-coated grey, thick as his arm. It flicked out, once, twice, almost touching Cador, and he shuddered. Every breath he drew brought him the metallic tang of blood; the blood of his squire, the blood of those helpless horses, and who knew what other victims. He would take vengeance. He was a knight. And so he peered out from behind his rock and studied the dragon’s scales.

The neck stretched up, too high for Cador to see the head (which was fine with him), so he looked at the underbelly, where the silver scales were tightly meshed as fine chainmail. Chainmail. That he knew. Chainmail had weaknesses. It was good against slashes, weak against jabs. Cador ignored the tongue as it flicked him for a third time. He had to aim well. Mail was weakest between links. He saw a few battered scales, perhaps where his spear struck, showing milk-white instead of silver, as if they’d been chipped. There.

He raised his shield to fend off the fangs, leapt, and thrust his sword forward. His shoulder jerked as the blade made contact and he pushed, until the serpent pushed back – its weight crushing him. He fell and rolled away. The ground shook as the dragon collapsed.

CHAPTER TWO

Naught but embers remained in the hearth; their orange-gold glow provided the barest of illumination, enough for me to see the silhouette of the empty wine pitcher, the dark hump of my stranger in their chair. It had grown so still, just Silence’s voice in the inn’s darkness. And now that had gone quiet, too. A mouse skittered across the floorboards, found some crumb and began to gnaw. That simple sound brought me back to myself: I had been in the sun-dappled forest, I had heard the shriek of an awful dragon in my ears. My stranger slumped, so still I thought they might have lapsed into sleep.

I leaned close, taking a lungful of air, and I swear, dear listener, I swear I tell you the truth, that I smelled for a moment the sour sweat of a terrified knight, the rotten stink of a corpse-eating serpent, right there in the inn. Then Silence stirred and stood up, and the sourness I smelled was nothing but spilled wine, and the rot was just the odour of the night-soil pot.

‘It has grown quite late,’ they said.

‘But …’ I fumbled for something to make them sit back down. ‘How is this the start of your story?’

‘Evan was so pleased with my father, he let him choose any woman to be his wife.’

‘Ah! A love story? This is where you begin? So we have only reached the start!’

My beautiful stranger rubbed at their eyes. ‘I can’t tell a story to save my life. They’re all like dreams. They make perfect sense in my head, utter gibberish when I try to explain. God keep you. Good night.’

I grabbed their arm – an arm as strong and firm as oak – and said, ‘You can’t leave. I must have … I must hear … please. Tell me your story.’

They pulled away from my grasp easily and said, with a voice that sounded amused, though it was too dark to tell if they smiled, ‘Very well. I’ll return, but I must use the jakes first. And check on my horse.’ Their footsteps barely made a sound; a brief gasp of fresh air marked their departure. Alone in the dark, I feared they would not return.

Isolde pushed open the kitchen door; carrying a taper in front of her, she peered down at me. ‘What’re you doing, still awake?’

‘Could you tell me of the person who has lately been talking with me? Silence?’

Isolde settled one hand on her hip. She wore her night cap, a grubby beret from which a few strands of her brown hair straggled out. ‘Silence. Leave that one well enough alone.’ She stared at me, her brown eyes level and grim.

Couldn’t she spare a modest hint? A he or a she? A man or a woman? No. That one. ‘I’m in the midst of hearing a most unusual story, and I find myself wondering if it is true.’ I offered her my best smile. ‘Do you know anything about Silence?’

‘If I do, it’s not for me to say.’

‘Fair enough, mistress. But what about Earl Cador? Do you know his story?’

‘Which part?’ she said.

I hoped that Silence would be a while with their horse. ‘Ah. The part about the dragon. And what follows.’

‘Who doesn’t know the story of Cador and the dragon!’ she said, her voice full of scorn.

I settled on a stool and gestured for Isolde to do the same. ‘I am not from these parts,’ I said.

‘What parts are you from, not to have heard of Earl Cador?’

I shrugged. Every piece of the earth that I have visited (and I’ve visited quite a few) thinks it is the most important. It does no good to dispel them of this notion. ‘I’m from nowhere. So Cador killed the dragon. And then …’

‘Cador killed the dragon, all by himself. And King Evan, may God keep him, was so pleased that he told Cador he could have the pick of any woman of the kingdom, so long as she wasn’t promised to another.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A most generous gift from the king.’

‘King Evan is known for his generosity. Have you not heard of his feasts? Of the gifts he gives to his faithful knights?’

I held up my hands in surrender. ‘Mercy, mistress. King Evan is known far and wide for being generous. And most just.’

This earned a grunt in reply. ‘Justice is different to fairness.’

‘You possess wisdom as well as beauty!’ I said.

She leaned across the table towards me. ‘I am no beauty, you liar. I never have been and I never will be. Your flattery does you no good. So just tell me what you want, and I’ll decide if I ought to give it to you.’ She reached down and placed a log on the fire. The flames took to it hungrily, casting enough light that Isolde blew the taper out.

I looked down at the table. Ashamed. She was no beauty. She must have had a bad case of the pox when she was young; her face bore the scars, and the disease left her skin mottled, so that she looked like a bowl of porridge with currants. I thought of telling her that true beauty lies beneath the surface, but I didn’t want to risk my space at her hearth, so I simply said, ‘Which woman did he choose?’

King Evan led his knights and lords out of the woods of Gwenelleth. They were a diminished company, it is true, but joyous at Cador’s success. The one remaining squire rode in the vanguard, Evan’s banner hoisted aloft once again, the evening breeze making it stutter. They had bickered over whether to bring the whole of the serpent back to Winchester, or at least a part. Lord Fendale had wanted to take the head, but the stench was so foul, they decided to leave it in the forest. In the end, Lord Fendale extracted one fang to hang as a trophy in the castle’s great hall.

So they rode, the squire at the head, King Evan behind, flanked by the Duke of Greenwold (who still thought they had killed a wyvern) and Lord Fendale, the fang lashed to his saddle. Cador rode further back still, though the king often turned to urge him forward, to tell them again of how the dragon had writhed, of how Cador had charged, of the killing blow to the heart.

But Cador waved them off. His mind was full of the battle, true, full of the king’s generous promise. But he was troubled by Merlin – he had mentioned the old wizard in his retelling of the story, explaining that Merlin had given him the insight into how the dragon might be slain. But he hadn’t mentioned Merlin’s promise, nor his prophecy, and he mulled these now.

And it should be said that Cador was not feeling well. Indeed, as the day lengthened, his normally ruddy cheeks grew pale, waxy, and he took on almost a greenish tinge. By noon, though the breeze kept the air cool, Cador was sweating, and when the Duke of Greenwold approached to ask how he fared, he touched the young man’s arm and found that his skin was hot as fire.

‘My lord!’ the duke called to the king. ‘Young Cador is ailing! I fear it is the dragon’s foul vapour; he breathed more than his fair share.’

The king drew near and laid a hand on Cador’s cheek. ‘How hot he is!’ He turned to one of his knights. ‘Take him on your horse; he cannot ride on his own.’ Indeed, Cador had slumped to the side, listless. The other knights took him down gently and settled him in front of the first knight, two to one horse. And then they rode, as swiftly as they could, to Winchester.

They rode through the afternoon and into the dusk, lighting torches and riding on, their horses frothing at the bits. Cador burned with fever and his breath came in rattling gasps and the king, hearing each tortured inhalation, urged greater haste until they arrived beneath Winchester’s walls at last.

A litter bore Cador to a chamber where a fire roared in the hearth. The king, still in his riding cloak, his black hair coated with dust from the road, called for the best physician to be brought, now, now, not a moment to be wasted.

It was nearly dawn when the best physician came, a slender young woman named Roswyn. She wore a simple dress of dark blue, embroidered with white loops and knots down the bodice. Her hair was tightly done up and hidden beneath a coif. She curtsied to the king, holding her skirt out to one side only, as her other hand clutched a bag of remedies.

The king’s steward bustled in after her, carrying a tray of vials and jars of ointment. He managed a bow and said, ‘My lord, King Evan, may I introduce to you Lady Roswyn, daughter of Renald, the Earl of Cornwall.’

‘Ah! Roswyn. The only daughter of Renald, if I am not mistaken. And his only child.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said the young woman, curtsying again.

King Evan nodded, for even in this time of distress – for he was truly concerned about young Cador – he was thinking of land, and inheritance, and how Cornwall had no heir …

‘Roswyn is the finest physicker I have ever known,’ the steward blustered. He set the tray down next to the bed where Cador lay and peered at the knight. ‘Blessed Mother of God!’ he exclaimed. ‘He looks near to death!’

Roswyn drew near to the bed as the steward backed away. Dawn broke and grey light seeped into the chamber. ‘He seems to have breathed in foul air,’ said Roswyn, leaning one ear to the knight’s chest. ‘I can hear a rattle that bodes nothing good.’

‘Have you not heard what happened?’ the king said. ‘He slew a dragon, all on his own. It was a dreadful serpent and filled the whole forest with its stench.’

‘Oh!’ Roswyn straightened, gazing down at Cador. ‘How terrible and how wonderful!’ She placed her hand on the knight’s forehead, brushing back his hair (though this was not, strictly speaking, medically necessary). How handsome he is, though his vigour is drained, she thought, but said aloud only, ‘He is cool and pallid. Build up the fire. We must draw the heat from his body. More wood.’ The steward leapt at her command. Then Roswyn turned to the king and gave a quick curtsy. ‘I beg your pardon; I’ll hear the tale eagerly another time. For now, I must attend to his ailments. This is most dire.’ And with that she began to rattle the vials and pots the steward had carried, reaching now and then into her bag to extract a wizened root or handful of desiccated leaves. The king, though worried for Cador, was all too happy to remove himself from the chamber, which was growing stuffy from the fire’s heat. Roswyn was pretty, to be sure. She had a fine nose and lips in a perfect Cupid’s bow, but she was much too commanding for a woman. She might be a fine physician, but such an occupation was most unbecoming for a lady.

Within the chamber, Roswyn mixed a poultice of mustard and goose fat and nettle. She had the steward remove Cador’s jerkin and shirt and settle the poultice against his chest (the steward furrowed his nose in disgust, but did as she told him). She sat as far from the blazing heat of the fire as she could, crushing mint and pulverizing the bones of a crow to mix into a potion, pausing only to wipe the sweat from her patient’s brow, to lift his wrist and feel for the thin beat of his heart, to reassure herself that he yet lived.

Three days, Cador lay in this state. Three days, Roswyn sat by his side. Three days, she poured elixirs of her own devising down his throat, rubbed ointments into his temples. Three days that he was sunk in a sleep beyond sleep and she sat sleepless beside him.

Even in his illness, he was so fair and handsome and Roswyn would often lean over him, smooth his blond hair back from his brow, or wipe his lips with a perfumed kerchief. Whenever she sent the steward out to fetch more wood or more supplies, she would take up Cador’s hand, and hold it in both of her own, her skin as pale as milk, her fingers thin and dainty; both her hands were barely the size of one of his. And, holding his hand, she would sing to him. Simple songs. Something to lift the spirits.

It was during one of these moments, when she was singing ‘The Song of the Rose’, that Cador opened his eyes. First the left, then the right. How beautiful they were, a tawny brown-gold. Roswyn stopped singing. He blinked. Opened his mouth and spoke with a rusty voice. ‘Are you an angel?’

‘My lord!’ Roswyn said, dropping his hand and standing up (for she had been sitting right beside him on the bed). ‘How do you feel?’

He paused to consider this question. ‘Quite terrible,’ he decided. ‘And I’m very hungry. Where am I?’

Roswyn dashed to the chamber door, her cheeks flushed and not just from the heat of the fire. ‘Sir Cador has awoken!’ she shouted down the hall.

The king came running and so did the Duke of Greenwold and even Lord Fendale climbed all those stairs to the chamber, panting, and they crowded into Cador’s room and cheered the knight’s return to health.

‘We shall make a proper feast for you tonight!’ King Evan roared. ‘And you can tell the whole hall about the dragon.’

‘I do still think it was a wyvern …’ the Duke of Greenwold began.

‘My lords,’ Roswyn said (she stood pressed against the wall furthest from the bed). ‘The good knight Cador shouldn’t dine on such heavy food, being so recently unwell. Though his fever is diminished, he should have naught but broth for a day or two. I’ll go and order some from the kitchens.’ And with that, she fled the room.

‘Never mind the wench,’ Lord Fendale said, watching her run away, her skirts streaming behind her. ‘We will bring you a haunch of venison. Nothing like it to cure your ills.’

Cador tried to lift himself to bid Roswyn farewell, to thank her … but she was already gone and so he lay back in his bed. ‘I should rather be fed broth by her than ever eat meat again,’ he said.

‘Surely you do not mean that!’ Lord Fendale protested. He turned to the king. ‘Are you certain he is cured?’

‘I truly do feel much better,’ Cador said.

‘Your cheeks are still flushed,’ the king said.

‘And your eyes are awfully bright,’ added the Duke of Greenwold.

‘If you are not sick,’ said Lord Fendale, ‘then you must be in love. I see this often enough with my silly daughters.’

At this, Cador blushed an even deeper red. ‘What is her name?’

The men roared with laughter. ‘In love! And he doesn’t know her name!’

King Evan had some mercy on the young knight. ‘She is Roswyn, the only daughter of Earl Renald of Cornwall.’

‘She’s beautiful.’

None disputed this, though the king coughed a bit and said, ‘It would be good for you to be acquainted of her a little more.’ A knock on the door made them all turn. Lord Fendale opened it and Roswyn entered. She held a ewer of watered wine and behind her the steward carried a tray with a steaming bowl of broth. ‘Ah,’ said the king. ‘Here she is. Steward, set that down and let the physician attend to her patient in peace.’ And all the men withdrew from the chamber, leaving the two new lovers alone.

‘They were married within the month,’ Isolde said, leaning back and sucking at her teeth. ‘And here’s where King Evan made a generous move, but still kept his own interests at heart. You have heard, even though you are from nowhere, that Evan had forbidden women from inheriting.’

‘Of course. Everyone knows that.’

‘Well. As Earl Renald’s only child, Roswyn would have inherited Cornwall, had King Evan’s law not been in force. But as it was, she stood to inherit nothing – that is part of why she trained in physick. But when Cador asked to marry her, King Evan took pity.’ She stood and stretched her arms, then scratched beneath her night cap.

‘Yes?’ I prompted. ‘What was his notion?’

‘He promised Cador and Roswyn that if they had a son, he would give the son all of Cornwall, and that, when Earl Renald died – though he hoped that would be on a day far distant – Cador would become Earl of Cornwall, holding everything in fief until his son could inherit.’

‘Most generous,’ I said.

‘King Evan is known to be generous,’ Isolde agreed. ‘But you see the weakness, do you not? If Roswyn and Cador did not have a son … if they only had daughters …’

‘Ah,’ I said.

‘Ah, indeed. Cador would have nothing. King Evan therefore seems generous yet stands a fair chance of gaining Cornwall all for himself. Most clever. That’s our king. Minstrel, you’ve half-turned me into a bard, making me tell you stories! It is almost midnight … there’s bread to be readied for morning and you had best be getting yourself some rest.’ She relit her taper from the fire and retreated to the kitchen. A moment later, the inn’s door opened, and my stranger returned.

‘How fares your horse?’

‘Well,’ they reply. ‘There is no better companion than a horse.’

I might have disputed this, but instead I merely raised an eyebrow: I had greater concerns. ‘Will you tell me of your birth?’

They tilted their head and looked at me as a bird might, with one bright eye. ‘Have you the whole night?’

‘I have nothing in the world but this night.’

Within a year of their wedding, Earl Renald died, and all of Cornwall mourned his passing. They say that even the piskies sent a bouquet of daisies to be laid on his casket (and mind you, he died in midwinter). Cador was installed as Earl of Cornwall, Roswyn beside him, in a sombre ceremony overseen by King Evan. The king offered words of comfort to Roswyn at the loss of her father, bemoaned how his own court would be losing a fine physician, praised Cador for his choice of a wife both wise and fair, and sent them on their way with wishes that she might bear many healthy children.

This last landed heavily on Cador’s ears, for he knew he held the earlship in fief only. It would not be his – would not belong to his line – unless he had a son. For a knight who had grown up with only a meagre holding, to be offered something as vast as Cornwall … well, he could not let this slip through his fingers.

He led his bride back to where she had grown up, the beautiful castle of Tintagel. Cador had never seen such a place. He marvelled at how it perched at the edge of a cliff, at the sheer drop of its walls straight to the ocean below. He delighted at how the wind rippled and shrieked around the walls, stinging the skin with its saltiness. It felt wild, it felt alive.

But to Roswyn, it was home. Here had been her childhood, falling asleep and waking to the crash of waves against rock. Here had been her young maidenhood, full of dreams and stories, hopes that a knight would carry her away, hopes that one of her mother’s babes would live beyond infancy to give her a brother or sister to care for. As they approached, and Tintagel’s square towers appeared, then its grey walls, Roswyn nudged her palfrey closer to Cador’s gelding and pointed to the base of the cliff. ‘See that dark spot, my lord?’

Cador craned his neck, using the gesture as an excuse to lean closer to Roswyn and take in her scent: lilies and a spicy root (likely she had been working with herbs). ‘I do, indeed.’

‘That is Merlin’s cave, they say, where the wizard once lived, and where he will return again when he is released from his curse. They say it is where he awaited the arrival of the baby Arthur, who came in on the waves of the sea, and where he will wait again for Arthur’s return. Or perhaps it isn’t Arthur who will return … the story isn’t clear. It says, the one true knight. That could be you, my love.’ And she smiled up at him.

By now Cador’s tale of the dragon and the wizard in the forest of Gwenelleth had spread quite well around the hall of Winchester, and he thought his wife might be teasing him a bit. He hoped so. He had no desire to live near the sorcerer. ‘Truly?’

‘Truly.’ She reached over and put her hand on Cador’s. ‘When I was a little girl, I would beg for my father to take me down there, when the tide ran low, and I could venture inside, if I dared. I dreamed that Merlin would come back and instead of being dark and rank, the walls would sparkle and gleam.’

‘I see.’ He patted her hand. Based on what he had seen of Merlin, the man might prefer to live in a dank hole. ‘He seems quite cursed.’ He nudged his horse along.

Roswyn looked over her shoulder at the cave mouth as they continued along the road towards the castle. ‘Too bad. Once there was magic all over this land … it’s seldom felt today.’

And Cador gave a little shiver, as if someone had let a drop of water trickle down his spine.

The lords and knights of Cornwall had gathered to welcome their new earl, and Cador answered their welcome as a good earl ought: with a sumptuous feast, a festival for all the crofters and fisherfolk about.

Renald’s coat of arms was a field of azure with a line of gold, bend sinister. Just a single slash of yellow running across the blue. ‘You should add your own device,’ his lady wife told him, one evening as they shared a mug of wine by the fire, with her curled in his lap.

‘And what ought I to add? A dragon?’

‘Heavens,’ said Roswyn. ‘The beast that nearly killed you?’

‘Nay. The beast that brought us together.’ And he bent his head down and kissed her rosy lips.

Rosywn thought a moment. ‘Add a crow,’ she said. ‘They are the cleverest bird there is. And did you not say that Merlin sounded like a crow and then appeared in the form of one?’

‘He did,’ said Cador, though the memory of the wizard’s voice made his flesh crawl. Even now, he could hear that laugh – Haw! – echoing in his skull. ‘Quite like a crow. I think I’d prefer something else … a fish?’

Roswyn took his chin in her hand and stared into his golden-brown eyes. ‘My lord. A fish will not do. Put on a crow, perching o’er the top of the field of azure, as if he is looking at the sea and the line of gold is a ripe sheaf he wishes to peck at.’

Cador shook his head. In truth, since the ordeal in Gwenelleth, he rather hated crows. But he could not deny his beautiful wife and said, ‘Of course, my sweeting. Whatever you wish, I shall give you.’ And he kissed her again.

‘I wish, more than anything, to bear you a dozen sons.’

‘One will do,’ Cador insisted. ‘One healthy son is all we need.’

Within a year, Roswyn was heavy with child. And though overjoyed at conceiving, the matter of inheritance preoccupied her, as it does so many who own property. Indeed, even a simple innkeeper might accurately claim that it is their inn that owns them, rather than the other way around. ‘What if I bear a girl, and I die giving birth?’ his wife would worry, and Cador would take her into his arms. He, Cador, killer of dragons, would murmur sweet reassurances into her hair, kiss her lily-white forehead, and tell her it would all be fine, and, when on his own, tremble with worry that it might happen as she feared.

But Roswyn would not be put off with such platitudes. ‘If it’s a girl and an only child,’ his wife would admonish him, ‘remember King Evan’s law. You’ll be the end of this line, all the lands and wealth lost that my ancestors have held for so many years. Our name and heritage erased!’

Cador sat with Roswyn for many an hour in one of Tintagel’s high chambers, overlooking the sea. With her in his arms, they’d watch the gulls wheeling over the rocky cliffs, watch the swells batter themselves against the shore. And when his wife slept, Cador would busy himself with the matters of the keep. And such matters they were. A quarrel among the grooms. A flock of sheep with the mange. And messengers coming from all manner of relations he never knew he had, but who suddenly recalled their bloodlines now that he was Earl of Cornwall. When these were attended to, he would walk the battlements of Tintagel, letting the wind from the ocean whip his blond hair around his face – the salt and sun had bleached it lighter, so now it looked less like ripe wheat and more like dry grass. Often, he’d lean against one of the stones, damp and streaked with the marks of time, and press his hands to the rock. This was his. This stone. These battlements. This castle. All the land, as far as he could gaze. Only the sea was not his, though his fishermen plied the water. It was magnificent. It was his. He must hold on to it.

On one morning in late autumn, Cador received an especially bedraggled messenger from a distant relative, Griselle. Unlike many of the other cousins who’d lately turned up, Cador did recall Griselle – she had once visited Winchester, when Cador was a newly orphaned page. A squire had mentioned in passing that Griselle’s eyes bulged out like a fish’s, not knowing she was Cador’s cousin, and Cador had challenged him to a duel and won, beating the older boy until he was bloody. Griselle had chastised him for such savagery, but also called him her champion. Cador was flattered but did have to admit her eyes did bulge rather a lot and the whole thing confused him completely.