Rhodri embarks on an awesome and epic journey darkened by thieves, rogues, an evil-handed sorceress and his own haunting nightmares. It will take all of Rhodri's strength, intelligence and maturity to come out of this task alive.

But Rhodri will find help in unusual and unlikely places and the difficult choices he makes along the way will shape his true destiny in this multi-layered and exciting fantasy novel.

CHAPTER ONE
The Teller and the Smith

I caught this mornings morning's minion,
king-dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon...
— G. Manley Hopkins, "The Windhover"

White clouds, breaking into blue. Eyes, so sharp and piercing they seemed to cut the sky, moving at speed. Eyes that dropped suddenly and spied a vision of the earth; fields and rivers, mountains and valleys, then wattle-and-daub houses and, moving among them - humans. The old hunting bird extended its talons and then it was falling, straight toward its master and the village green.

As he saw the bird stoop from the clouds, a boy stopped and looked up. It was Glindor, his father's oldest but most skillful peregrine falcon, and he knew that somewhere his pa must be calling to summon him back.

For five days the little Saxon village, half a day's journey from the boy's farm, had been transformed by the arrival of an autumn fair. The air was thick with the scents of meat and mud, hay and animal dung, wood smoke and human sweat. Flutes, tambourines, and drums sang in his ears as he followed the noisy crowd down the lane. The shouts of stall holders came to tempt passersby to part with their coins, or to swap some vegetables or a loaf of bread for their wares.

The boy was desperately excited, and thankful that he was even here, for two days earlier there had been some doubt that his ma and da would take him on the difficult journey. With robbers haunting the edges of the forests, fear was rife in this countryside on the borders of Wales, where it was always dangerous to travel across open country. But his mother needed a new milk churn and his father another hunting bird from the trader Athulstan, for the coming feast day of St. Martin. Besides, neither of his parents had been willing to disappoint their son.

"Come," hissed a voice behind the boy, "come and look."

He swung round to see an old crone sitting at a table with a milking stool in front of it. Her face was more ravaged than anyone's he had ever seen before, and the boy gulped as she reached a leathery hand across the table and clasped him by the wrist.

"Hey. Let go of me," he snapped, pulling away. He noticed that her skin smelled strange and unpleasant.

"You want to know your fortune though, don't ye? We all want to know our fortune. Come, boy, don't be frightened."

The boy was repulsed by the hag. Her voice was like nothing he had heard before either, even with the many accents that mingled here on the border of Wales and England, whether Celtic or Saxon or Norman French.

"I'm not frightened," he lied.

The woman was already picking up the pack of cards, which the boy assumed she used to make her living, following these fairs and markets through the countryside. Her eyes sparkled evilly and seemed to carry a question as she glared at him.

"Such a pure and handsome face," she cried, through yellowed, broken teeth, "with a bold look, too. Like one of the heroes of old."

The boy stared back with distaste.

"Which brings both fortune and misfortune," added the crone, smiling. "Although I see you've your mother's manner and colouring."

The lad blinked in astonishment. How had she known? The locks of curly black hair about his shoulders were just like his mother Megan's. His dark Welsh skin and the freckled face were like hers, too, although his serious hazelnut eyes were like his father's. Many of the children he knew thought them strange, frightening eyes, for they were flecked with impurities, and the boy would stare at things for ages.

"How do you know that?" he demanded, sitting down abruptly on the stool in front of her.

The crone grinned and gave him the pack of cards to shuffle. She had him cut them, three times, before snatching them back again in her crabbed, witchlike fingers.

"What are they naming you, boy?" she asked, as she began to deal them out.

"Rhodri. Rhodri Falcon."

Rhodri opened his shoulders and sat up proudly. Few boys in the village, or the country around, would have dared give themselves anything as grand as a Sir-Name. Rhodri's father, Owen, was a master falconer though, who tended to a great Norman lord's hunting birds on the edge of his lands below the beech forest, so he had a right to the name. His father's real name wasn't Falcon at all, but Owen Ap Llewelyn, which means son of Llewelyn. Now that the family had come from Wales to settle among the English, Owen had changed it to draw less attention to themselves.

Many of the Saxon boys teased Rhodri about it and would try to bully him for giving himself airs and graces. But Rhodri didn't care much. Though a great dreamer, he was a feisty, energetic lad, far too impetuous his mother sometimes said, and he liked the name. Better than Cooper or Smith anyway, as the barrel maker and the blacksmith's sons sometimes called themselves.

"That pendant, boy," asked the old woman sharply, her eyes fixed now on Rhodri's chest, "where did you get it?"

Rhodri looked down at the thing. It was a strange shape, like some kind of animal's head, made of weathered bronze, with a swirling Celtic cross in its center. It was Rhodri's proudest possession. His father had once worn it, as his father and grandfather had done before him. The family heirloom had been passed faithfully from father to son, down the generations, and finally to Rhodri on his last birthing day.

"From my pa," answered Rhodri warily, remembering that thieves and pickpockets loved such fairs. The fortune-teller, just one of several who had set up their stalls on the edge of the village near the blacksmith's, nodded and smiled thinly.

"Very well then, boy." Wreaths of smoke drifted around the stalls from the forge, thickening the air of threat hanging like a pall over the weird women. The fortune-teller started to turn over the tattered cards.

Rhodri knew something of the pack, which was used to tell futures and would one day be known as the Tarot. It was still recent to Albion and was, as yet, called the Seeing Deck. He recognized first the King of Swords and then the World, a circle of gold and green and royal blue, a citadel depicted within it, held above the head of two winged children. Next came a man and a woman: the blindfolded Lovers. They were followed by the Hanged Man and the Fool, with feathers in his hair, and then a card that all children love to stare at for hours -Death.

"Don't be frightened," whispered the crone. "The card doesn't always mean what it seems to mean. Often it just tells of a journey, or a great change. Though death haunts us all."

Rhodri's attention was held fast now. The woman muttered to herself as she waved her hands over the cards and sucked in her breath. She had just turned over a card that showed a stone tower being struck by lightning.

"What can you see?" asked Rhodri, warming to the game.

"Destruction," answered the crone, "and great warfare. News comes of war, boy."

"The battle in the Norman lands?" asked Rhodri eagerly. "In France?"

The hag shook her head.

"A fight far older and far deeper. Once more the earth will drink human blood. Once more your realm shall be without a king. Word come from Rome and place the Norman king in terrible danger."

The woman was looking strangely at Rhodri. The Norman king, he thought with glittering eyes, Richard Coeur de Lion—the Lionheart.

"And it will take a true hero to end the suffering that will grip us all. Only one with true courage and love in his heart may do it."

"When?" asked the boy. "When is the war coming?"

The crone turned over another card to reveal a figure in a cowl, standing quite alone. His back was hunched and he was leaning heavily on a wooden staff. In his hand the Hermit carried a tall hourglass. As soon as she saw him the fortune-teller looked about her and hissed angrily.

"Not you, you old meddler," she said as if she was talking of a real person.

"Who?" asked the boy, looking about, too.

The crone turned back to him sharply.

"Beware of him, child. Beware when he comes. But his hourglass shows that it will be soon. Now, let me see more."

Rhodri was trembling a little, frightened and equally fascinated, when he heard a voice behind him, addressing him in Welsh.

"What are you doing here, Rhodri?"
 
His father, Owen, stood there, holding Glindor on the heavy leather hawking glove that protected the falconer from its talons. Owen was a tall and powerful man, six foot two at least, with strong, vigorous hands and a prominent forehead. His eyes spoke of a natural authority. His hair, which flourished on his fine head, was beginning to turn from yellow to a glittering silver. At his belt was a bag of gold, his antler-handled dagger, and one of the long leather lures that he would swing to summon his birds.

"Come now," he cried irritably, "answer truly, son. What the are you doing here? I've told you before not to talk ..."

"Nothing, Pa," said Rhodri, dropping his eyes, "She made me watch."

"Then come away," said Owen sternly, speaking in English and glaring at the crone. "Ma will need some help and I still haven't found Athulstan yet. Besides, you don't want to be bothering with this foolery."

The hag looked up at Owen with interest, and Rhodri thought she gave him a sly look.

"You," she whispered, "the boy's father. You've strength in you, too. And a role in this."

"A role?" said Owen, "What on earth are you talking about?"

The fortune-teller turned over yet another card. It was the Enchantress, seated on a high-backed chair, like a throne, and behind her in the distance was a great, dark cave. Rhodri noticed the teller smile to herself.

"Wouldn't you like to know the boy's fate too? He has a very great destiny."

Rhodri sat up.

"Does he now?" said Owen coldly, moving Glindor even closer to unnerve her. "If I covered your palm in gold, no doubt you'd tell me he'll serve the king himself and marry into a high family, have seven children, and live happily to a ripe old age."

"I tell you only what I see," answered the woman, scowling at Owen and the bird, "and I see you've both dreams in your eyes."

"Idle nonsense," snorted Owen. "The Holy Church teaches that magic is the devil's work. Come on, Rhodri, let's be going."

Owen turned and stalked away. The crone scooped the cross of cards back into the pack and addressed Rhodri as he got up.

"Parents are not always so right, boy," she hissed, "no matter how wise they seem. And, to their children, they always seem wiser than gods."

"I'm sorry, but I have to go," said Rhodri.

"I've more to tell you. Much more."

The hag turned over the last card. It showed another woman, holding a sword in her left hand and a golden scales in her right, backed by a fine, young knight on a white charger. The card was Justice and the crone seemed troubled by it.

Rhodri set off after his father down the muddy lane.

"Come back," called the fortune-teller, and her voice dwindled in the fair.

Rhodri was sorry that he hadn't had a chance to learn more of his great destiny, but he was soon caught up again in the sights all around him and his father. His heart began to race as they walked toward the center of the village, for it seemed that the whole of human life had descended on this wonderful place.

"You like it, bach" asked Owen as they went, using one of the warmest words of affection in Wales, meaning "little one." He had already forgiven his son. Ahead a tumbler rolled along on a barrel, spinning forward in the air and landing perfectly on the moving stand.

"Oh yes, Da. It's so much bigger than last year."

Owen waved to a man crossing the track, a common visitor to the Falcon home, Waylinn, who shod the horses. Two gigantic, sweating wrestlers were locked together in the mud, and a red-suited juggler, with a face like a moldy turnip, was throwing up batons, like those Rhodri had just seen on one of the cards in the fortune-telling pack.

"Yes indeed, Rhodri. Perhaps, with the wars in the Norman Lands that the Lionheart pursues so ruthlessly, more and more are running away to join such fairs."

Rhodri felt an odd tightening in his chest. The witch had mentioned the Lionheart.

"You'll not be sent over the channel to fight too though, will you, Pa?" Owen ruffled his son's hair.

"No, son. I'm a master falconer, Rhodri, not a soldier or mercenary, bless the good Lord. And the earthly lord we serve doesn't care to fight in the Frankish lands again. He's happy to watch his birds take their prey in the open air."

Rhodri wanted to take his father's hand and squeeze it tight, but he was too old for such gestures now.

"Besides, I'll never leave you or your mother alone and defenseless. But don't tell the other boys what I say, mind you," added Owen with a wink. "They might start to whisper that your father's a coward."

"I'll fight any that say it, and bloody their noses."

"Spoken like a true Welshman," cried Owen, smiling delightedly at his son. "And you were always hot tempered. I know that you'd fight like a lion. Your grandda would be proud. Think of how many brave scars he won himself in the Holy Lands."

Rhodri had never met his grandfather, who had fought in the first Holy War that took men to free the Eternal City, Jerusalem, from the infidel. The city where Christ was crucified for all men's sins. It had fallen to Christian soldiers a hundred years before, before being lost again almost as quickly to the Moselmen. Rhodri suddenly realized with a thrill that his own pendant must have journeyed with his grandda across the sea, like the rusting broadsword that hung over thehearth in their home. Owen had told him many glorious tales of the war, although he always said, too, that real glory is the happiness of hearth and home.

Nearby a minstrel began to strum on a lute and his voice rose in longing. It was an old Prankish song, about a wandering knight and his lost love, and it was so beautiful that even the tumbler stopped to listen. Then the minstrel sang another song in the English tongue.

"Merry it is while summer lasts, with wild birdsong, but now the naked winds do blast, and weathers strong ..."

His voice faded as father and son came on a group of soldiers who served Owen's liege lord, Pierre De Brackenois. They were out of uniform, apart from the swords at their belts, and were passing round a flagon of strong mead, thoroughly enjoying the fair. The men seemed in good humour, although many of the locals looked at them darkly and muttered.

Well over a century after the Conquest, Norman lords, speaking the hated French tongue, still held the most powerful positions in England. But they no longer spoke the French quite so freely and many had mixed their own with Saxon blood. Owen's master, Lord De Brackenois, was such a man, for he had taken a Saxon bride. Yet there were still those who were deeply resentful of their rulers from across the channel, and of soldiers like these, who served them.

As Owen and Rhodri drew closer, another soldier ran up.

"Why are you loafing?" he cried angrily, "getting drunk when there's work to be done. Those serfs were spotted yesternight, they'll be long gone now."

"What are you chafing at?" growled the largest of them. "They only escaped three months back. There's time yet a plenty for the King's Law to work. We're enjoying the fair."

Rhodri knew the soldier was talking of the ancient law that allowed a serf, bound to the land and his lord for life, to go free if he ran away and remained on the loose for a year and a day. Soldiers were often hunting serfs down and showed little or no in mercy doing it.

"And what if they get into the forests?" growled the first. "Or cross the border into Wales? I'm not following them among those savages."

"They must escape to a town to become true freemen," said another. "That's the law."

"I know the damned law and I know your duty, too. Come on."

He grabbed the flagon and pushed the others away. Rhodri wanted to follow a while, but Owen had just seen the man he was looking for and hurried his son on toward the end of the track.

Here was an open green and a kind of village square. On the grass, among scruffy bullocks and squealing pigs, a man whom Rhodri had seen at last year's fair had set up a row of perches, where a line of young hunting birds sat. They were tethered by their feet with long jesses and were wearing little leather hoods. There were three goshawks, two falcons, and a tawny owl. Athulstan the bird trader was grinning proudly as he showed them to his clients, and Owen pulled out the pouch of coins and strode forward to inspect the birds.

Normally Rhodri would have been fascinated to watch his father pick the finest creature, for Owen had an almost infallible eye for hunting birds, but he was far too interested in exploring the fair on his own.

"Don't go too far now, Rhodri bach" cried Owen cheerfully, as his son drifted away again.

"No, Pa. I won't. I promise."

He wandered off and the noise from the fair rose loudly about him. A little boy was riding a wooden hobby horse around the green and a mother was scolding her daughter for getting mud on her new dress, Rhodri s head began to spin. There were faces all around him, laughing wildly, or scowling as the fair-goers bumped into one another, or parted reluctantly with a piece of coin. The shouts of approval or scorn, delight or disgust, rose like their own music and Rhodri found himself thinking of the fortune-teller and her prophecy.

He told himself not to be so foolish. Although only twelve, Rhodri was already very grown-up for his age. As Megan and Owen's only child, he had many responsibilities on their little farm. He was a caring and thoughtful lad, deeply loved by his mother and father, but there were few other houses round about them and so few children for Rhodri to play with, except perhaps pretty Sarah, the miller's daughter.

Rhodri would make up for his loneliness by inventing stories, day and night. Sometimes these waking dreams were so vivid, it was as if he were actually there inside his reveries. He loved to listen, too, whenever travelling tinkers came through with their tales of old Angleland, lapping them up like a kitten would a bowl of fresh milk.

Rhodri had reached a raised platform where four men were dressed in lords' clothes. The travelling players were gesticulating wildly and mouthing their lines at the tops of their voices, as they tried to earn their supper.

The story they were telling was of King Arthur and his queen Guinevere, of her love for the loyal Lancelot, who betrayed his friencl and king for Guinevere's heart, and so brought ruin to Albion. Of the great magician Merlin, too, who lived beyond time, and fought the wicked Morgana Le Fey. Of the final battle where Arthur had fallen asleep and been rowed across the waves, only to rise again when Albion needed him.

"Begone, Morgana," cried a man playing Merlin, in Saxon English, lifting a wooden staff like a wand and pointing it at a player in women's clothes. "Your evil is banished forever."

Merlin was rather short and fat and Rhodri didn't think he looked like a great wizard at all.

"No, Merlin," hissed the seeming maiden, "our battle goes on. For all eternity."

Rhodri suddenly felt a powerful longing inside him to go on a great journey. As he wandered on, he found that he had come back to the smithy's near the fortune-tellers. Through the open door he saw the blacksmith at work in front of the fire, hammering on a piece of metal. It would soon be alchemized by heat and the man's labour into a new sword. Great molten sparks flew into the air as the blacksmith hammered away, and Rhodri stepped back as he felt the blast of hot air against his cheeks.

The sight of the smith through the door thrilled him, for they were mysterious, even magical figures. Perhaps it was because their dangerous trade set them at the edge of the village, and away from the community, where stray sparks could not set light to the thatched roofs. Perhaps because, as well as making powerful weapons, the best blacksmiths were said to know of deeper mysteries, too, like the mixing of minerals and the nature of stones.

As he drew closer, Rhodri was surprised to see that this smith wasn't a strong young man, as was the case with the few smiths he had come across. This man had once been tall, but now he was beginning to stoop and his hair was completely white. He lifted a powerful arm and brought his hammer down sharply on the metal. Just then someone came running down the lane and almost bumped into Rhodri.

"Mind out," cried the hurrying man angrily, as he pushed passed. Rhodri scowled. "Look out yourself."

"You like to watch blades being forged, lad?" said a voice through the doorway of the smithy. The smith did not look up as he spoke. His accent was rich and deep, but not Norman, Saxon, or Welsh. Rather a mixture of the three. Rhodri drew closer.

"Oh, yes, sir. I love the sparks and embers. The look of new metal, too."

The white-haired blacksmith nodded and seemed pleased, for he stopped working, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and invited the boy inside.

"I don't know, sir," said Rhodri, still hovering by the threshold. "Father always warns me of strangers. He was furious when I talked to a fortune-teller just now."

The smith cocked his head, but still he did not look up.

"Fire's a wondrous thing," he said instead, as the forge flared again. "For not only does it destroy, but it also creates. And it shows you things, too, does it not? Visions in its light."

The boy's keen eyes were already caught in the firelight, and he thought of the many times he had sat at home by the hearth with his parents and daydreamed happily to himself. "Yes, sir."

"And would you not like to wield a sword yourself, boy?"

"I have done, sir," answered Rhodri. "Pa's sword. Though only when he's there."

"And not in anger, I hope. You're too young for real anger, yet."

The blacksmith suddenly turned to look straight at Rhodri and the boy gasped in blank astonishment. Not because of the smith's words, but his eyes. They were strangely dull and seemed to look beyond the boy, or straight through him.

"But you. You're..."

"Blind," said the smith softly.

"But how?" asked Rhodri fearfully.

"How do I ply my craft?" answered the man, turning the blade in his clever hand. "There are other senses than sight, boy. And senses just as strong. No doubt you think me too old, too, for such work. But then youth is the enemy of age, is it not? Come closer, lad."

As if drawn by his voice, Rhodri stepped through the door and right up to the blind smith, who had tilted his head and, although he could not see, seemed to be listening intently. He reached out and put a hand straight on Rhodri's shoulder. Rhodri didn't flinch, for the touch was very calm.

"You're a strong lad," said the smith, as the forge sparked and flared dangerously. "Though perhaps small for your age."

With that the smith moved his hand toward Rhodri's throat and, as if he had seen it, clasped the little amulet, rubbing it in his fingers, testing it with his touch.

"That's finely worked," he said approvingly, "finely indeed."

"Thank you, sir," said Rhodri, wondering how he had known it was there.
 
"Where did you get it?"

"It was my pa's," answered Rhodri, wondering why everyone was so interested in it. "And was once my grandfather's. It's been in my family for as long as anyone can remember."

The smith's blind eyes flickered as he let go.

"Has it now?" he whispered. "Yes indeed. And it's very old. Made by one of the great smiths, perhaps."

Rhodri clasped the thing proudly.

"So why do you want a sword?" the smith asked.

"I think it would be a fine thing to fight," answered Rhodri.

"Would it now?" said the man thoughtfully, lifting the blade he was working and turning it in the sparking light, as if he could see everything about him. "Well perhaps it would. But perhaps one day you'll learn of the true sword. The sword that brings only peace."

"Peace?" said Rhodri in surprise.

The smith seemed almost to be looking now, not into Rhodri's eyes, but straight at his forehead.

"There was a sword once, a sword forged in fire and legend, which dwelt inside a stone. A sword made for a high king who ruled then and forever, and protected all that wielded it with its magic."

Rhodri felt a shiver up his spine. "Excalibur," he whispered, thinking of the players. "Some call it Excalibur, indeed," said the blind man with a srnile, "and others, Mythirion. Some know it as the blade of Ten Thousand Tears and others as Tintallor, the Hope Bringer." Rhodri's heart beat faster.

"It was the sword whose edge cuts through lies, as a knife through butter, and whose true sheath is made of solid stone. The sword that the great sorcerer Merlin placed inside Bethganoth, the rock the roots of which go down to the very heart of the world."

Rhodri had heard nearly every story there was to hear of Excalibur, but this strange blacksmith was telling him things that he did not know. A rock called Bethganoth. The sword in the stone. As the boy stood there and gazed into the flames, for the briefest of moments he fancied that within the fire's heat he could see the great rock and at its top, the hilt of a magical sword.

"The sword that was cast back into the lake?" he said, not to seem ignorant, and shaking off the reverie. "When King Arthur passed away. The lake where the fair lady resided."

The smith thrust his handiwork back into the fire to temper it more.

"Was it now? Some say that it was not water into which Excalibur was cast, and that it will be redrawn again in a time of terrible danger to Albion. But that it can only be wielded by one with true courage and love in his heart."

Rhodri gulped. These were exactly the same words the old crone had spoken to him.

"Tell me, young man," said the smith, "do you believe in magic? Really believe, I mean, with all your heart and soul. Magic and miracles." Rhodri didn't know what to say. He found himself aping his father's words. "Our Saviour worked miracles, sir," he said, "but the Church teaches that magic is the devil's work."

The smith raised an eyebrow over one blind eye and now Rhodri saw that a thin scar ran right across both lids.

"And your Church teaches many strange things, to keep the ignorant under its yoke."

"My Church?" said Rhodri.

"There are many worlds," the blind man went on, and it was as if everything outside the forge had vanished and Rhodri could hear him alone, "and many people born into them. There are faiths far, far older than that taught by your holy Church.

"Faiths, Sir?"

"Oh, yes," said the smith, withdrawing the sword again. It was glowing bright red and Rhodri could feel its heat on his cheeks. "As for magic, some indeed use the Law to call on the dark forces of the world. But if black magic exists, must not white also?"

Rhodri did not know of this law, but the smith seemed to mean something other than the law of the king. Talk of black magic made him a little nervous, too, and he backed away.

"Wait," said the man and he pointed the tip of the sword straight at Rhodri, who blushed and stopped again.

"You said you were reading the cards earlier, lad, but wouldntyou like to see more than just pretty painted pictures? See something truly magical? You've a questing in you, and the air of one who really seeks. You're young yet, it's true, but maybe one day you'll be ready to look and see. To look into the deep, dark waters of the Telling Pool."

The smith was smiling at Rhodri and suddenly he plunged the blade into a bucket of water next to him. He had not reached out to find it at all. There was a furious hissing and a great cloud of steam billowed up around them both.

"The Telling Pool?" said Rhodri, wreathed in water vapor. "Whats that?"

"An ancient spring, boy, deep within the heart of the forest answered the smith gravely, "where some believe Excalibur itself was thrown. It's not a lake, but a forest pool that comes from within the belly of the living earth, fed constantly by the sacred spring. It gives life and power to the Telling Pool."

The man lifted the sword from the water once more and turned it in his hand.

"Why's it called that, sir?" asked Rhodri, wondering how a pool could have life.

"Because the pool can show you secrets that lie beneath the surface of things. Although it's dangerous to look, too."

"Where is it?" Rhodri asked. "Why are you telling ..."

Before he could finish, he heard someone calling outside.

"My ma," he said. He hadn't seen his mother all morning. The old smith smiled and Rhodri was about to turn when the man spoke again.

"A darkness is coming, boy. When it touches the land, or those you love, seek it out. The Telling Pool. There's something special about you. You walk the Path of the Deer."

Rhodri hardly knew what to say, or what the man was talking about. His mother called more loudly. "I'm sorry," he said, "I have to go."

Rhodri ran outside. The spell was broken instantly as the hectic, ancing noise of carnival broke over him again and from the smithy he the sound of hammering once more. Rhodri was sweating badly and he blinked and looked about him, wondering if he had just been daydreaming.

'Rhodri, my darling. I thought I saw you go in there."

Megan Falcon stood in the lane. A new clay milk churn was clutched to her breast and she was lifting her woollen skirts to keep the hem clear of the mud. Rhodri was pleased to see his mother. He noticed some of the men were staring at her also, for Megan was a very beautiful woman, with long, flowing tresses that tumbled down her back, clear chestnut brown eyes, and an open and generous smile.

On a little leather tawse about her neck hung another amulet, which Owen had bought for her that very morning. Though not as finely worked as Rhodri's, it was of beaten silver and formed the image of a man with a staff in a little circle - St. Christopher, the patron saint of travellers.

Megan beamed warmly as Rhodri ran up to her. He wanted to hug her, but thought better of doing so in full view of the village and any nearby boys, who might think him babyish.

"It's getting very late, cariad" she said, as she put down the churn and placed her hand on Rhodri's shoulder and looked at him. Megan spoke in English, although she used the Welsh word for darling - cariad. "Have you been having fun?"

"Oh yes, Ma. I met a fortune-teller and saw some players and just now..." Rhodri stopped. Something told him that he must not speak of the blind smith's words.

"Pa's on the green," he said instead, "buying the new bird for St. Martin's Day."

Rhodri had been disturbed by the smith and he felt at ease again at his mother's presence. But he pulled away when he saw some older boys he knew, and had once fought, too, walking toward them, striking out a' the younger children with their stringed conkers and wooden swords.

Rhodri looked scornfully at the toys and stooped down to pick up his mother's milk churn and take charge.

Back on the green, Owen was paying the man called Athulstan two silver florins for a new rock falcon, a haggard which had just reached its first plumage. When Owen saw Megan with Rhodri, he strode up and took her in his powerful arms. He spun his wife round playfully, before leading them both over to look at the new falcon. It was a wonderful bird, with good, strong talons and powerful, angry eyes. Owen let Rhodri take it to carry back to their cart, but when they turned to go, Athulstan suddenly held up a jug of wine.

"What are you thinking, Falcon?" he cried. "To do a bargain without making a toast. A deal's a deal, and must be done well. You want bad luck for a lifetime? "

Owen smiled and drank a little, before saying farewell. As Rhodri waited, he held the new bird on his lifted hand and tried to calm his own breathing to settle the young creature. It was a trick his father had taught him with birds, to gain their trust.

Evening was coming in as the Falcons climbed on the cart that Owen had borrowed from Sarah's father, the miller, and set off at last for home. Rhodri was perched between his mother and father, and the new bird was tethered next to Glindor the peregrine falcon, in the ack of the cart. The leaves on the trees at the edge of town had begun to fringe with gold and the path from the village was already thickly carpeted.

As their cart rattled along, they passed a single old woman trudging out of the village, carrying a woven bag over her shoulder. It was e ancient fortune-teller and Rhodri wondered why she was leaving the fair. She looked up at the family as they passed, her greedy eyes sparkling wickedly.

"Ma," whispered Rhodri, suddenly feeling very tired, "do you believe in magic? That some folk can see things, I mean. Things that will come true."

Megan lifted her hand and stroked her son's cheek. "No, my love. And even if I did I would turn away from it. Why do you ask?"

"That old woman, Ma," answered the boy, looking back warily, "She was reading the cards and she knew that I looked just like you." Megan laughed.

"That's no magic, Rhodri. She saw us all coming into the village this morning. I recognize her. She was watching us and I think she was interested in your amulet."

Owen laughed, too. "There you are, Rhodri bach. Always trust your ma to show us foolish men the truth, see."

"But ma," said Rhodri, "what's the Telling Pool?"

"The Telling Pool?" answered Megan. "I don't know, bach. I've never heard of such a thing."

"The lad's overexcited." Owen chuckled, spurring on the horse and thinking with sudden care of how dangerous the forests were at night "He's been listening to the players."

The number of other travellers on the road, full of the chatter of the day and already beginning to sing, or light lanterns or torches, reassured Owen in the coming darkness, although he still wished he had brought along his father's broadsword and not just his dagger to protect them. Megan was humming to herself as she admired her amulet and Rhodri had already closed his eyes, rocked into sleep by the lilting of the cart and the tender, powerful rhythms of his parents' breathing.

As they galloped along, Rhodri Falcon was already dreaming, dreaming of a pool where the magical sword Excalibur had been thrown, a pool deep within the heart of the wild forests.

© David Clement-Davies