The guard turned ashen. He swallowed convulsively, looking at the boy as though seeing a ghost. Quickly, the peddler turned to the guard. “Stop staring,” he hissed. The guard blinked at the force in the peddler’s voice then set his face in stern lines. The peddler, reassured, stepped back.
“Your uncle, young sir, has questioned the value of my wares. We were merely discussing matters.”
The boy looked uncertainly at his uncle, at the peddler, at the guard. “Well,” he said in a passable imitation of a growl, “you’d better not threaten him that’s all.”
“I am well guarded, as you see,” the old man said, smiling.
“You are indeed,” the guard said, his voice somewhat hoarse. He cleared his throat. “And so, I might add, is this fine peddler. There is an accusation to be settled.”
“Indeed,” said the peddler smoothly. “And I have a way to settle it. You, my fine elderly fellow, shall put us up for the night. I hereby invoke the law of hospitality.”
The old man’s dark eyes flashed in outrage. “What? You dare—”
“In return,” the peddler went on, “you may cook my dinner in one of these shining, new pots. And, if you agree that my wares are sound, as I am sure you will, we can discuss price in the morning.”
The peddler waited, his head cocked arrogantly. The guard said nothing, keeping his eyes stubbornly off the boy.
“Outrageous.” the boy said flatly. “We refuse.”
The old man put a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m afraid we can’t. The law of hospitality forbids it. Very well,” he said turning to the peddler, “but you will do the cooking.”
The guard groaned. “Please don’t make me eat his cooking again.” The peddler shot the guard a poisonous look.
Involuntarily, the old man smiled then hastily put on a frown. “We’ll discuss this further, in private,” he said shortly. “Come.”
The peddler hastily packed up his goods while the guard held the horse’s reins. They followed the old man and the boy to the last hut at the edge of the village.
The old man jerked open the wooden door and motioned everyone inside with a curt gesture. “We’ll take care of your horse in a minute,” the old man said irritably. “Get inside.” The peddler tied the horse’s reins to the post beside the door then entered the little house. When they were all inside the old man slammed the door and bolted it. The boy stood suspiciously by the door, as though ready to run off for help at the slightest sign of trouble from their unwanted guests.
The peddler’s eyes traveled over the cozy room, over the low-beamed ceiling hung with drying herbs, over the fire burning cheerily in the hearth, over the boy standing anxiously by the door. Then his eyes came to rest on the old man who was grinning. “Nice place you have here, Myrrdin,” the peddler said.
“Thank you, Gwydion,” the old man replied casually. “Arthur and I like it.”
“Gwydion?” Arthur cried in astonishment. “Uncle Gwydion?”
“None other,” the peddler replied, as he pulled off his hood and his gray wig.
“But your beard’s gray!” Arthur exclaimed.
“Oh, that’s just flour, it will wash off.”
“What are you doing here?” Arthur demanded.
“Visiting.” Gwydion glanced at the guard, who stood motionless by the hearth. The guard hadn’t left off staring at Arthur, drinking in the sight like a man who is dying of thirst drinks in cool, clear water.
“Do you remember, Arthur, eight years ago when I brought you here? I made a promise then,” Gwydion said gently.
Arthur nodded slowly, his eyes going to the guard who stood so silently.
“And the promise was?” Gwydion prompted.
“That you would bring my Da to see me one day,” Arthur whispered.
“Yes. And so I have.” Slowly Arthur and the guard came to stand before each other. The guard’s eyes were misted as he uncertainly held out his arms.
“Da?” Arthur whispered. “Oh, Da.” As he hurled himself into Uthyr’s arms, he began to weep.
Uthyr held his son close to his heart, tears streaming down his drawn face. After a few moments he grasped Arthur’s thin shoulders and drew back slightly to look at his son. He spoke to Myrrdin, but his eyes did not leave Arthur’s face. “You’ve done well, Myrrdin. Thank you. Thank you for bringing up my son.” He stopped for a moment, unable to go on. “My son,” he repeated. “My boy.” And then they were again holding each other close.
“Perhaps,” Myrrdin said gently to Arthur, “you would care to show your father our fine flock of sheep. And perhaps he would care to take a little walk with you.”