confusion.
“Morgan is Merlin’s daughter.” There was an almost imperceptible pause. “And he is my guardian,” Arthur added.
“I see,” said Bedwyr, although he didn’t.
Arthur absently flexed one lean brown wrist. “We came to sell our produce at the fair.” Morgan was coming toward them now. She reached the boys and looked up. The top of her head reached to Arthur’s eyes; Bedwyr towered over her. The sun shone on her peach-colored cheeks.
“Your dream horse,” she said to Arthur. Then, looking at Bedwyr, “Are there more like him?”
“His oldest get are now three-year-olds,” Bedwyr replied.
“But there are more in Gaul?” It was Arthur speaking now.
“I suppose so. Among the Goths, at any rate.” He looked at the two of them in some bewilderment. “Why is it so important?”
Arthur’s eyes, so arrestingly light in his deeply tanned face, looked Bedwyr up and down. Bedwyr found himself holding his breath. It was suddenly of vital importance to him to be found worthy of this black-haired boy’s confidence.
Arthur had made up his mind. He smiled at Bedwyr and said casually, “One day I want to form a cavalry unit to fight against the Saxons.”
The blue eyes blazed. “A cavalry unit? Like the Goths?”
“Yes,” said Arthur. “Heavy cavalry. Like the Goths.”
Bedwyr’s splendid face was perfectly serious. “When you are ready to form your cavalry unit,” he said, “send for me.”
“Yes,” replied Arthur with equal seriousness, “I will.” And it did not seem strange to either boy that Bedwyr, the prince, had put himself at the other’s command.
Over that winter Horatius began to fail. Moving was an obvious effort for him and he would lie for hours near the charcoal brazier in Morgan’s room, watching her out of dreamy, half-closed eyes. Several times a day Arthur would carry him out to the grass at the back of the house and then carry him back to Morgan’s room.
In March he began to refuse food. Merlin wanted to end it for him, but Morgan refused, saying he was not in pain. “Let him die in his own way,” she said to Arthur.
On an early spring day of diffused sunshine, Arthur carried Horatius out to the grass for the last time. Morgan sat with him as he lay with his head on his front paws, his eyes clouded, his sides trembling with each breath.
He was still alive when Arthur came down after his morning practice session with weapons, and so both youngsters were with him when he died.
They told no one at first. Arthur dug a grave for him in the woods behind the house and carried him out to it, a long walk burdened with Horatius’ deadweight. Morgan put some hay in the bottom of the grave to soften it; then they put the dog in and covered him over.
“How is Horatius?” Merlin asked his daughter at dinner.
Arthur answered for her. “He died this afternoon, sir. We buried him in the woods.”
“I see,” said Merlin quietly. He looked at his daughter’s averted face and said nothing more.
After dinner Morgan slipped away to look at Horatius’ grave. Then she took her pony out to the tree house, where she sat huddled against the trunk, staring at the willows on the other side of the river that were just starting to turn green.
After ten minutes she heard Arthur’s voice calling her name.
“Here!” she called back.
She heard his pony coming through the woods, but did not look over the edge of the platform. He swung himself up onto the planking and stopped, looking at her gravely. A lock of black hair fell across his forehead and he brushed it back.
“It’s foolish to grieve for his death, I know,” she said. “He was ready. But, oh, Arthur, I shall miss him so!”
“It’s not foolish to grieve for the loss of a loved one,” he replied and, coming to sit beside her, he gathered her into his arms. She nestled against him, her head falling against his arm, her face turning into his shoulder. She began to cry and he held her closer, his heart
“Morgan is Merlin’s daughter.” There was an almost imperceptible pause. “And he is my guardian,” Arthur added.
“I see,” said Bedwyr, although he didn’t.
Arthur absently flexed one lean brown wrist. “We came to sell our produce at the fair.” Morgan was coming toward them now. She reached the boys and looked up. The top of her head reached to Arthur’s eyes; Bedwyr towered over her. The sun shone on her peach-colored cheeks.
“Your dream horse,” she said to Arthur. Then, looking at Bedwyr, “Are there more like him?”
“His oldest get are now three-year-olds,” Bedwyr replied.
“But there are more in Gaul?” It was Arthur speaking now.
“I suppose so. Among the Goths, at any rate.” He looked at the two of them in some bewilderment. “Why is it so important?”
Arthur’s eyes, so arrestingly light in his deeply tanned face, looked Bedwyr up and down. Bedwyr found himself holding his breath. It was suddenly of vital importance to him to be found worthy of this black-haired boy’s confidence.
Arthur had made up his mind. He smiled at Bedwyr and said casually, “One day I want to form a cavalry unit to fight against the Saxons.”
The blue eyes blazed. “A cavalry unit? Like the Goths?”
“Yes,” said Arthur. “Heavy cavalry. Like the Goths.”
Bedwyr’s splendid face was perfectly serious. “When you are ready to form your cavalry unit,” he said, “send for me.”
“Yes,” replied Arthur with equal seriousness, “I will.” And it did not seem strange to either boy that Bedwyr, the prince, had put himself at the other’s command.
Over that winter Horatius began to fail. Moving was an obvious effort for him and he would lie for hours near the charcoal brazier in Morgan’s room, watching her out of dreamy, half-closed eyes. Several times a day Arthur would carry him out to the grass at the back of the house and then carry him back to Morgan’s room.
In March he began to refuse food. Merlin wanted to end it for him, but Morgan refused, saying he was not in pain. “Let him die in his own way,” she said to Arthur.
On an early spring day of diffused sunshine, Arthur carried Horatius out to the grass for the last time. Morgan sat with him as he lay with his head on his front paws, his eyes clouded, his sides trembling with each breath.
He was still alive when Arthur came down after his morning practice session with weapons, and so both youngsters were with him when he died.
They told no one at first. Arthur dug a grave for him in the woods behind the house and carried him out to it, a long walk burdened with Horatius’ deadweight. Morgan put some hay in the bottom of the grave to soften it; then they put the dog in and covered him over.
“How is Horatius?” Merlin asked his daughter at dinner.
Arthur answered for her. “He died this afternoon, sir. We buried him in the woods.”
“I see,” said Merlin quietly. He looked at his daughter’s averted face and said nothing more.
After dinner Morgan slipped away to look at Horatius’ grave. Then she took her pony out to the tree house, where she sat huddled against the trunk, staring at the willows on the other side of the river that were just starting to turn green.
After ten minutes she heard Arthur’s voice calling her name.
“Here!” she called back.
She heard his pony coming through the woods, but did not look over the edge of the platform. He swung himself up onto the planking and stopped, looking at her gravely. A lock of black hair fell across his forehead and he brushed it back.
“It’s foolish to grieve for his death, I know,” she said. “He was ready. But, oh, Arthur, I shall miss him so!”
“It’s not foolish to grieve for the loss of a loved one,” he replied and, coming to sit beside her, he gathered her into his arms. She nestled against him, her head falling against his arm, her face turning into his shoulder. She began to cry and he held her closer, his heart
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