The Road to Avalon by Joan Wolf

him with upraised fists, got a chop on the side of the neck that stopped him dead. Bedwyr’s fist sent a third flying through the air. Abruptly the boys were alone.
    They regarded each other with mutual satisfaction. “You shouldn’t wear all that fancy jewelry around a fair,” Arthur said reprovingly.
    Bedwyr’s eyes were brilliantly blue. “Gods,” he said. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
    “At home,” Arthur replied laconically. He looked up at the sky. “Come on. I’m late meeting Morgan.”
    Morgan was sitting on an old saddle in front of the herb woman’s stall when she saw him coming toward her, accompanied by a big boy with long silver-blond hair. “Sorry,” Arthur called as soon as he was within earshot. “I got delayed.”
    “That’s all right,” Morgan replied equably, and got to her feet.
    Bedwyr stared at the small, fragile-looking girl. “Is this your friend?” he asked Arthur.
    Before Arthur could reply, however, Morgan spoke. “Whom were you fighting?” she asked Arthur, and looked with resignation at the blood on his lip.
    “Some men jumped us,” he answered cheerfully. “They wanted Bedwyr’s arm rings. Morgan, this is Bedwyr. He has the most magnificent horse. You must come to see him.”
    Morgan’s brown eyes moved to Bedwyr. “Hello, Bedwyr,” she said. “Do you mind if I come to see your horse?”
    Bedwyr found himself smiling at her. “You’ll have to be careful,” he cautioned. “He isn’t safe.”
    Morgan’s brown head nodded in acknowledgment. “Before we leave, though, perhaps you ought to take off those arm rings.”
    Bedwyr grinned and complied, slipping them inside his tunic as the three of them walked off. He would never have taken them off at anyone else’s suggestion, Arthur thought with amusement as they weaved in and out among the stalls. Wait until he saw Morgan with his vicious stallion!
    They were moving through the area of food stalls and the crowd was getting thicker. Arthur took Morgan’s hand. “You go first, Bedwyr,” he said as he slipped Morgan deftly between the Celt and himself. “You’re the biggest.”
    The black was still grazing when they arrived back at the Dyfed camp. He raised his head and looked at them suspiciously as they approached.
    “Oh, Arthur,” Morgan breathed.
    Arthur nodded tensely. “Bedwyr says he came from Gaul.”
    “Hello, my beauty,” said Morgan, and began to walk toward the horse.
    “Watch out!” Bedwyr reached to stop her but his own arm was caught and held immobile by steel-hard fingers.
    “Wait,” said Arthur. “Watch.”
    Bedwyr stood still, astonished by the strength of those thin fingers, and did as he was commanded. The stallion watched Morgan approaching him, his ears flicking back and forth. Bedwyr was amazed to see that he was trembling. The girl was talking to him in a series of chirps and soft sounds that the Celt had never heard before. She reached the stallion and stood quietly before him, still talking. He snorted, but his eyes never left her. Then she raised a hand and patted the side of his neck. For a moment the two stayed thus, as if carved in marble, and then the stallion lowered his head and she was rubbing his forehead. He began to nuzzle her clothes.
    “I don’t believe it. Is it magic?” Bedwyr turned to Arthur and surprised a very revealing expression on the other boy’s face. Oh, thought Bedwyr, so that’s how it is.
    Then the expression was gone, and Arthur said to him, “Not magic, just Morgan. She can do anything with an animal.”
    “It is amazing,” Bedwyr replied slowly, and looked thoughtfully back at the girl who was gentling his father’s vicious horse. “Where do you two come from?” he asked.
    “From Dumnonia,” Arthur replied. “From the villa of Avalon.”
    Avalon was a name that Bedwyr knew. His head jerked around. “Merlin’s villa?”
    “Yes.” Arthur’s face was composed, unreadable.
    “But who are you?” Bedwyr asked in