Part 22 (2/2)

'Bran,' said Dido, 'do you think Queen Ginevra will let him do all those things? I reckon she quite likes those shrunken heads.'

'Who can tell?'

'I'd a thought you could. Can't you tell the future?'

'After a fas.h.i.+on, yes I can. But, if you recall, I can do nothing to affect it. Only continue to remind people that free will exists.'

'What's free will, Mister Bran?'

'In Bath's happy city

Where the girls are so pretty

How free was my will

As I freewheeled along

Why, even a sparrow

Can choose broad or narrow

And a man can choose daily

Between right and wrong '

sang Bran.

'You'll never get a sensible answer out of him,' said the princess. 'Not when he's in this mood.'

'Bran,' said Dido, 'how come you knew Mrs Vavasour so well?'

The princess looked doubtfully at Bran, as if wondering how he would take such a personal question. But he answered readily enough, 'Why, who should know her better than I? I was married to her for five hundred years or so sweet Nimue! Dear Nynevie! And to show her wifely affection she threw me into an enchantment and shut me up under a stone rather like you, princess, but a deal longer.'

'You were married to Nynevie? Then, are you sorry she's dead?'

'Of course I am. You can't be married to somebody and not have some feeling for them; however wicked they may be, or how badly they treat you.'

Elen rode in silence for a long time after this exchange.

Now they were very close to Bath; approaching it from the southern aspect, over Odd Down, one of the foothills of Mount Damyake.

As they came near enough to distinguish individual objects, Dido saw that the walls of the city were lined with silent watchers; news of their approach had evidently gone ahead of them to the city. The great south gate was closed; but when they came within fifteen hundred yards of the walls, it slowly swung open.

'Humph,' muttered Lieutenant Windward, who happened to be riding beside Dido at that point (she and Captain Hughes had been provided with ponies), 'I don't much care for the look of Mount Catelonde. Or Damask, come to that.'

Great thick oily black piles of smoke kept knotting and coiling upwards from Catelonde's crater, every now and then pierced by a gush of sparks or flame; and a distinct bulge had appeared on the shoulder of Damask; 'like a boil about to burst' as the lieutenant pointed out. He went on, 'I only hope the superst.i.tious folk in Bath don't connect it with Holystone's return and decide that he's a bad halfpenny and Grandmother Sul don't want him. Or we'll all be in the basket!'

Now there was a change in the order of march.

Holystone rode out ahead on his lively black pony. The fitful sunlight (coming through immense clouds of black volcanic smoke) fetched gleams from his diadem and the hilt of Caliburn; he looked very kingly.

But Captain Hughes muttered testily, 'All very well but, bless my soul, I wonder if that's wise? It only wants one marksman with a musket or crossbow '

Holystone, however, rode on steadily across the stony plain, and his troop quietly followed him.

When he reached the gate he looked up, without speaking, at the black heads of the watchers, crowded like starlings on the walls at either side.

One of King Mabon's heralds spurred forward and blew a loud blast on a bocina, then bawled resonantly through a trumpet-shaped wooden mouthpiece: 'The High King, Artaius Mercurius Ambrosius, true son of Uther Ambrosius, Pendragon of c.u.mbria, Lyonesse and Hy Brasil, returns in peace to his city of Bath Regis.'

There was a long moment of hushed silence following this announcement; then the whole city of Bath almost lifted off the ground in deafening response. Bells clanged till the steeples rocked, muskets were discharged, boci-nas clamoured, horns rooted and tooted, rattles clacked, and over and above and through all the other sounds, human voices could be heard shouting joyfully, 'Welcome, welcome to our Rex Quondam! G.o.d bless Mercurius Artaius! G.o.d bless King Arthur!'

Holystone was evidently much moved. He got off his pony for a moment, knelt to kiss the threshold of the gate, then quite simply wiped his eyes on the pony's mane. As he was about to remount, a boy, still blackened from work in the silver-mines, came running to offer him a huge key, shaped like a basilisk, which was apparently the key to the city of Bath. Holystone received the key on its cus.h.i.+on, made some remark which set the boy laughing, then handed it back, swung himself into the saddle, and rode on up Damask Street.

It was as if no one had been sure that he was really coming; as if they could not quite believe their luck until they had the evidence of their own eyes. Now, as he rode slowly along, windows opened, and bunting hastily rolled out of them to hang in brilliant stripes down the front of the white houses; ropes flew on arrows across the streets and trails of pennants followed; in three minutes the whole route was transformed to an avenue of dazzling colours.

By the time they had turned the corner into Ertayne Street, people had fetched out festive costumes, were running from their doors fastening red-and-green kerchiefs round their necks, pinning on gaudy ap.r.o.ns, tying streamers on their hats. Dido, looking sideways at the dancing, waving, shouting, screaming exuberant crowds who fluttered bright handkerchiefs, blew kisses, tossed flowers, could hardly believe that they were the same surly scowling citizens that she had encountered on her previous visit.

But there were very few children.

Now, as they turned right again, and came into the big cobbled palace yard, Dido saw that as many as possible of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain had been hustled out of the Museum, quickly polished up, and set on plinths: the basket, drinking-horn, halter, knife, cauldron, whetstone, garment, pan, platter, chessboard and mantle. The chariot had unfortunately fallen to pieces during its hasty removal, but the drinking-horn, pan and platter shone bravely, and somebody flung the mantle, moth-eaten but gleaming with red-and-gold embroidery, over the rump of Holystone's pony. He pulled out his sword and held it up in salute; it was greeted by a hushed, breathing murmur: 'Caliburn! He has Caliburn!'

Somebody had also brought along the Four Ancient Creatures from the zoological garden, and there they were, blinking and yawning in wickerwork cages: the Ousel of Cilgwri, the Stag of Redynvre, the Owl of Cwm Cawlwyrd and the Eagle of Gwern Abwy. Holystone laughed when the saw the aged creatures, and called teasingly.

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