Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

The most significant point she made addressed the question of femininity—an area utterly alien to me. She was amazed that our young women received no military training, and pursued no athletic activities, like running and climbing. I listened happily, agreeing from time to time with what she said and remembering with nostalgia my early days with Deirdre, when she and I had run and walked and wrestled strenuously among the hills surrounding Avalon.

It was only when the fire collapsed upon itself, belching a cloud of sparks, that I realized I had lost track of time and that an hour must have passed since her father and Donuil's departure to search for the man Rud.

"What about the missing man? Will he be found, d'you think?"

"Oh aye, he'll be found, but whether whole or injured, dead or alive, I cannot tell. I suspect some accident has happened to him. But they will find him. Rud is a steady man, solid and trustworthy, and unliking of things new. Of all the people in the place who might be expected to lose themselves, Rud would be the least likely, for he seldom travels far in trapping his animals, and he never wanders from the track he has beaten over the years through the woods behind his house."

"Hmm." I sat back in my chair, feeling totally at ease with this impressive young woman. "You think your father will be gone for long?"

"Mmm-mmm." The sound, accompanied by a brief headshake, was a firm negative. She put down her cup, leaning over to place it on the floor, and then sat back, twisting her body sideways to rest her back against the arm of her chair so that she could look directly into my eyes. "So, Master Merlyn, what think you of my man, really?"

Her question caught me unawares, and I realized that I had been looking at her breasts, aware of them for the first time that evening only because of the way in which she had twisted to face me, throwing the right one, small but perfectly formed, into sharp relief beneath the heavy covering of her robe. Now I flicked my eyes hastily upward to her face, seeing again, as though afresh, the startling, hawklike beauty of the eyes that gazed back at me with no sign of discomfort, from beneath her brows. She smiled at me, displaying her fine teeth again, supremely confident of who and what she was.

"Your man? Oh, your father."

She cut me short with a shake of her head, her smile growing wider. "No, my man. Donuil Mac Athol."

"Oh . . . I see." I cleared my throat. "Well . . . what do you mean, what do I think of him? I respect and admire him greatly. He is my friend, and I am honoured by his friendship."

"He is young, though, to have you as a friend, would you not think so?"

"Young?" That observation disconcerted me slightly, and I had to think about my answer, attempting to ignore her question's implications about my own years. "Aye," I said, finally. "I suppose nine years might be seen by some as a large gap in age, particularly between close friends. . ." I hesitated only briefly. "But Donuil is unique, and he and I have come to know each other well over the past five years. I have found nothing in him to dislike or to mistrust. Absolutely nothing . . . But tell me," I went on, unable to resist the urge to ask. "Is he aware of your conviction? Does he know you regard him as 'your man'?"

Now she laughed, her voice as clear and ringing as the tone I had struck from Excalibur in the Armoury at Camulod. "Of course not, no! He has no idea!" The mere thought of such a thing clearly struck her as ludicrous and her laughter grew even stronger. "Oh, poor Donuil! He doesn't even know himself that he is!" She held up a hand, begging me to sit still while she mastered herself, and then, when her laughter had died down she coughed slightly and said demurely, although smiling still, "As I have said, Donuil is young, and in some ways very young, but he will learn."

"I see," I said again, and this time I did, and clearly. "I think he will, too. But have you always known that he was yours?"

Now her smile grew gentler, more subdued. "Almost, Master Merlyn, almost. I have certainly known since I was very young. Donuil and I were destined each for the other."

"Hmm, Destiny." I almost added "again," but caught myself in time. "And how can you know that with such certainty?" I was smiling now, too, not doubting her sincerity for a moment.

"Because I know. He and I will be wed and I will bear him two sons, called Gwin and Ghilleadh." She raised one eyebrow, looking at me serenely. "I simply know these things, Master Merlyn, but were I to tell you how I know, you would disbelieve me and think me foolish."

"Call me plain Merlyn, without the 'Master,' or Caius, if you prefer. I doubt that I could think you foolish." She bowed her head in gracious acceptance of both compliments and I stopped speaking, staring into her eyes. She waited, knowing that I had more to add. Finally, when I had straightened out the thought that had returned to me, I continued. "You said something to me this morning, when we first met, something strange. You said you had seen me before, but not clearly." She blinked, a long, slow, birdlike closing of her wide, exotically slanted eyes that was deliberate, I felt; an attempt to guard herself against my gaze. When her eyes opened again, looking into mine, I pressed on. "I know your father has been in Britain, but I did not think he had been there recently. Has he? And did you accompany him? Because unless you did, you could not possibly have seen me before today, clearly or otherwise."

Shelagh's smile had disappeared as I spoke, and now she reached upward to her mouth, smoothing the softness of her lower lip with the tip of the smallest finger on her right hand. I watched the gentle pressure push the pillow of her full lip slightly askew and then she curled her fingers, cupping her chin delicately.

"It was a slip of the tongue. Is your full name Caius Merlyn or Merlyn Britannicus? Which is correct?"

"Both. My name is Caius Merlyn Britannicus."

"It's a good name, strong and solid."

"My thanks. And what is yours?"

"My full name?" Her smile had returned. "Shelagh. Shelagh, daughter of Liam, known as Twistback. But I am not Shelagh Twistback, simply Shelagh."

"Then, 'Simply Shelagh,' I will congratulate you on your attempt to divert my attention, unsuccessful though it has been. A slip of the tongue, you said.

I hope you will forgive me if I doubt you. You were looking at me as you said the words this morning and I believed you recognized me. You had seen me before. So how could that be?" My heart was suddenly beating hard in my chest as I waited for her reaction, because I had begun to feel, all at once and without logic, that she and I might have far more in common than either of us could ever have suspected. She stared back at me, her face now in repose.

"I meant what I said, Merlyn. It was a slip of the tongue."

"No." I shook my head, dismissing her response. "Pardon me, but a slip of the tongue is an inadvertent yet revealing lapse. An error of statement that contains a truth."

"Really?" Her eyes glinted with amusement and a hint, I thought, of stirring anger. "And what does that mean?"

I decided to gamble, but began by prevaricating. "Nothing, really," I said, pretending resignation. "It was mere curiosity that prompted me to say it."

"Curiosity about what?"

Now I smiled at her. "About you, about who you are and how you think. I found myself wondering if you had dreamed of your future with Donuil, and of the names you would give your sons."

"Well, of course I have." She smiled at me now with all the guile of womankind. "All young women dream of such things. Surely you knew that?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "To an extent, I did. But I had not known they dreamed quite so minutely. Most of my own dreams are formless pictures, difficult to recall on wakening. I had presumed everyone's were the same."