"And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be upon every beast of the earth, and upon every fowl of the air, upon all that moveth upon the earth, and upon all the fishes of the sea; into your hand are they delivered.

Every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you; even as the green herb have I given you all things."

- Genesis, 9:2-3.

Eight years ago

Seven young squires of Camelot trotted through the woods, their mounts sweaty from the day's hard riding. They had raced from the royal court, whose pavilions had been pitched almost two leagues away. It was pleasant for them to be away from their masters, and to be given free rein to hunt as if they were full knights.

"You're getting rusty, Arthur," said Everard Prothero, a handsome, broad chested youth with strong features and sandy hair. "My grand-dame rides faster than you on her lady's palfrey."

"The Devil take your grand-dame," said Arthur mildly. He liked Everard, who was good-hearted and a strong fighter, but Arthur found the older squire tiresome on occasion. Everard was always trying to best his peers. Knights were expected to be competitive and to prove themselves by strength of arms, and all young men were prone to friendly rivalry in groups. However, in Everard's case, his boldness often veered into braggartism. There were only so many times one could hear about the endless feats of strength he'd performed and the countless wenches he'd bedded.

"We shouldn't have ridden so far ahead," said thin, nervous, Martyn Penrose. "There are outlaws in the woods. And our hounds are far behind us. How will we find game?"

"The old-fashioned way," said Everard. "We'd be poor excuses for squires if we couldn't handle a few wild villeins. And hunting is more worthy the more a man relies on himself."

"Even so, we should be back before nightfall. Our masters will need us to prepare for the melee tomorrow."

"They have pages," said Tomos Broderick. "The King gave us leave for the whole day. I only wish it were past the Feast of the Annunciation. We never get to hunt on our own, and now none of the deer are in season. There's hardly anything worthy of highborn hunters out here. What, rabbits? Badgers? Foxes?"

"Wild boar," said Everard with relish. "Now there's a fierce beast! Ugly as the Devil's backside, and not so majestic as a hart, but even more perilous! Let's bring down one of those. Then the damsels of the court won't turn their noses up at us."

"Yes," said Tomos, "you can skin a wild boar and send it to Lady Anna of Montgomery, to remind her of your face."

Everard aimed a swipe at Tomos with his boar-spear, but the other squire swiftly twitched his horse's reins and dodged out of the way.

"I've gone off Anna," Everard declared. "She declined to dance with me at the feast yesterday. I, the son of an earl, and she, the daughter of a baron! Her father's estate is some patch of dirt that stinks of pigshit. She should have showered me with gratitude that I even deigned to set eyes on her. She's not even that handsome. She has freckles, and her teeth are uneven, and her tits are smaller than Tomos'."

"I do not have tits," said auburn haired Tomos, with a long suffering air. He smoothed down the front of his tunic, as if conscious of his fleshy torso.

"Besides," Everard went on, "I'm more curious about those Moorish maidens who came to court. I'd never seen blackamoors before. They were pretty! Why, they looked quite human, except for their skin. In all the tales of the Saracens I've heard, they are hideous creatures, with donkeys' ears, and wolves' teeth, and the noses of eagles, with eyes big as saucers. But they looked quite handsome, and just like our women, only the colour of night."

"That's because they weren't real Moors," said Martyn. "I don't believe it. Earl Gow wanted to show off his wealth, and he made us think he'd gotten servants from the East. But they're just acrobats in costume. Back home, when the jugglers put on the Mystery Play of the Nativity, there are three mummers who play the Three Wise Men, and they paint their faces with cunning ink. They look like real Aethiops, but it's only illusion."

"I doubt that," said Everard. "It was very convincing. I even touched one of them, and nothing came off on my hand."

Martyn looked appalled. "Do you think the Earl would bring real pagan Moors into his court? That he would let us break bread with the worshippers of Mahound and Termagant?" He crossed himself. "Our Lady preserve us."

"I wonder if the Moorish maidens are black all over their bodies," Everard mused.

"Of course they are," Tomos said. "What, did you think them striped like antelopes?"

"They could be," Everard returned. "A bard came to my father's court once and sang of a knight, whose father was a Brython and mother was a Moorish princess. Apparently his skin was as motley as a magpie's, with patches of black and white all over."

Tomos scoffed, "A bard couldn't say a true thing if his life depended on it."

"However," Martyn mused, "the Prophet Jeremiah hath it that, si mutare potest Aethiops pellem suam, aut pardus varietates suas. That is, when the Cushite may change his skin, the leopard may change his spots. But this is all besides the point. Everard, you should spend less time contemplating the bodies of pagan women, who will seduce you into idolatry. It is not proper."

"Alas, Martyn," said Everard, "you are yet to feel the sting of Cupid's arrows. What could be more proper for a young squire than to meditate upon the female form, which is the object of his desire and reverence, and whose beauty lends strength to manly deeds? Unfortunately for you, you have yet to appreciate the virtues of womankind, except for your patroness Madame the Virgin. And much like Our Lady, you are destined to remain an eternal virgin until Doomsday."

Martyn replied icily, "Kindly do not compare my devotion to our Blessed Mother to your lust for the dusky-skinned harlots of Aegpyt."

They continued riding for a while, then, Everard showing off by taking the lead and dexterously manoeuvring his charger through its paces. Several times they dismounted and examined the trees and ground for signs of game, but they were continually disappointed. It was beginning to seem that leaving the hounds behind was a poor idea. Given the time of year, they might return to court with no worthy trophy for squires of their rank.

When they had dismounted for the fourth time at the edge of a green field, Everard put his arm out and motioned the others to be silent. He pointed into the long grass, where a tiny black speck, the tip of an ear, was just visible to them.

"Hares," he said. "Sad little beasts, but better than nothing. Perhaps our luck is beginning to turn." He handed his reins to Tomos, loaded his crossbow and carefully wound it. As Everard stepped silently onto the grass, the hares sensed the presence of the hunters. They streaked from their hiding places, becoming two blurs of tan on the green sward. Quicker than the blink of an eye, Everard aimed and released a bolt, which found its mark.

The hare convulsed as the arrow pierced its body, and tumbled across the grass, coming to a halt on its back. It began to scream, making a series of horrible high pitched cries, like a toddler in pain. As it shrieked, its limbs twitched, convulsing like those of a man with the palsy. Arthur had killed hares before, but this time something about those cries touched his heart, for he was unnerved by how human they were. The hare's mate froze, a statue standing in the open, as if unsure whether to hide itself or go to its companion. Everard reloaded his crossbow and swiftly rewound it.

"Stop!" cried a ringing voice.

A woman was standing not fifteen paces from them. She had appeared from the trees as silently as a shadow. Her hair was grey with age, yet something about her did not fit the image of a respectable matron. For one thing, she was wearing men's breeches, below a forester's tunic was of rough-spun, moss coloured fabric. There was no sign of a mount.

What kind of woman lived this far out in the woods, without escort? An outlaw.

She spoke slowly and forcefully, her voice sonorous, like that of a priest reading from the Psalms during Mass.

"It is a sin to kill a hare."

The seven squires considered this pronouncement. The woman was clearly not highborn, and she must see the men before her were nobles from their apparel. Yet she did not greet them, or bow, or lower her eyes, or ask for permission to speak. Her tone of voice was not submissive, despite the presence of her superiors. In Camelot she could be publicly disciplined for such insolence, but the outcasts in this forest must have been isolated from society for so long that they lacked all manners and graces.

Martyn, who was pious, recovered first. He said, frowning, "Nowhere does it say in the Law or the Prophets that a hare's life is holy."

The woman snapped, "Open your eyes, boy! There is a Law in this land which was here before your Book and your Prophets! Listen to the trees rooted in the soil. Listen to the waters and the winds of this place. Listen to a Law older than priests and princes!"

"Insolent wench!" said Tomos. "You speak to the eldest son of Lord Iestyn Penrose, one of King Uther's sworn earls!"

The woman's eyes flickered to Tomos. "Lord Iestyn, is it? You aren't in Camelot now. There were Lords and Ladies in these woods long before your grandfather found a purple cloak and learnt to call himself a highborn. There is a sovereignty higher than yours here, and if you walk this place you had better fear the Old Powers and keep their laws."

Everard said, "This mad old woman is clearly a heatheness. Why do we humour her? Mend your speech, goodwife, or once I bring down that hare I'll send a bolt after you."

The woman was not cowed. "You threaten an unarmed woman, with grey hairs upon her head? When the Druids ruled this land you would have called me Mother and bent your backs before me. You have no respect for life, not the defenceless hare, which harms none, nor even your subjects. Take heed! A lord is the shepherd of his people, not a wolf who goes among them to maraud and plunder! The Goddess gave you crowns, and she may take them away!"

"Take them away?" said Everard. "You speak treason." The crossbow in his hands swung towards the woman.

"Everard!" said Arthur sharply. "You will be a knight one day. You will swear an oath to protect the honour of women, and to render succour to the poor and needy. Will you disgrace the knight whose sword you carry, and my father's whole court, by brandishing arms at a woman, whatever her rank or religion?"

Everard put up his crossbow, but his eyes were burning.

"Hold," said Tomos thoughtfully. "Maybe there is something to this paynim's ranting. Our gamekeeper used to say that it was bad luck to kill a hare. He said that the she-hare could bear young without the intervention of a male, and so the country folk take her as a symbol of Our Lady, and refuse to disturb her."

"That's because your gamekeeper is an unbaptised villager, hardly better than a Turk," said Everard. "Hares sacred to Our Lady? I've never heard of such a thing. That's a story the people of the Old Faith invented so they could keep worshipping their animals, only claiming to do it for the Blessed Virgin instead of their Goddess." He glanced at the old woman. "Look here, mistress. We are highborn by virtue of our blood. It is not in you or the spirits you worship to grant us our power, or take it away. Every commoner is subject to us, and every beast is our prey, should we will it. You do not command us."

And, so saying, Everard aimed and fired the second bolt.

Unlike the first hare, the second made no sound as it writhed and died on the grass, the earth receiving its blood.

When Arthur looked for the old woman again, he saw that she had disappeared.

"The madwoman has fled," said Everard. "Like the Druids and the dragons before her. The people of the Old Religion had no real power. They spoke lies, and their prophecies were all smoke and mirrors. Let's put her preaching out of our heads. The hares are a sign our luck is beginning to turn. We'll find larger game soon."

And so they rode on, putting a brave face on things, though Arthur felt disturbed by what he had seen and heard, and there seemed a pall cast over the day's events. Eventually, however, Everard's bravado had the effect of cheering them all up. It seemed he was right about their luck improving, too, for soon enough they picked up the trail of a great boar.

"Imagine the size of the tusks on this thing!" Tomos exclaimed, as they peered at the hoofprints.

The boar was a clever beast, too, for when he glimpsed them coming, he fled through the thick undergrowth, seeking to escape their horses. He forded a stream, and even turned himself about to be downwind of them, both of which would have confused the hounds, had they been on hand. The squires, however, had been on far too many hunts with their masters to be outwitted by a solitary animal, regardless of how wise it might be.

Eventually they cornered him in a patch of shrubs. The squires dismounted and took out their long spears, encircling their quarry, so that he could not escape. They advanced, contracting the circle, beating the bushes ahead of them with their long spears, flushing out their prey. This was the most perilous time.

"Be ready," Arthur said.

The boar exploded from the undergrowth, charging at the prince. Had Arthur been an instant slower, the beast would have bowled him over. He flung himself out of the way, and the boar's tusks tore open the side of his tunic, little more than grazing his skin. As Arthur leapt, he struck truly with his spear, stabbing deeply into the beast's left flank.

But Everard would not let Arthur have all the glory. He ran in close, far too close, and dealt the animal another blow in its breast. The boar, in a rush of strength brought on by its death throes, flew into the air and charged into Everard, knocking him flat onto his back, trampling him under its hooves. Its tusks lowered and thrust, burying themselves deep into the boy's throat. His flesh was ripped open, and for a horrible moment, Arthur saw Everard's body skewered like the hare's, writhing in pain.

The earth opened to receive her share of blood again.

As Merlin passes through the gate of Water, he dreams a terrible dream. He has seen it before.

Arthur lies at Merlin's feet, a pale corpse. Attending his body are a priest and a priestess.

The priestess has three faces: Nimueh, Morgause, and Morgana. The faces wax and wane into each other like the new moon changing into the crescent, the full, and the dark once more.

The priest wears the face of Bishop Rhodri, looking infinitely sad.

The priestess speaks.

"Why did you allow this, Emrys? You could have struck down your enemies without lifting a finger!"

"Nay," says the priest. "Rather you did good to those who hated you, and when they struck you, you turned the other cheek, hoping for nothing."

The priestess says, "Your people were enslaved and persecuted! You had it in your power to free them! You could have commanded dragons to descend from the sky, and fire and lightning to smite their oppressors!"

The priest says, "Nay, you came not to rule, but to be a servant. Though you had the power of twelve legions of dragons, you submitted to your own suffering. For you came not to do your own will, but the will of the one who sent you. And if you said to your people, 'Slaves, obey your masters,' it was so that if their earthy masters would not reward them, they would have their reward from their master in Heaven."

The priestess holds up a jewelled chalice, brimming with water.

"Swear loyalty to me, Emrys," she says. "Bow down before the Goddess. Acknowledge that I am Camelot's heir. And I shall give you the Water of Life, and Arthur shall live again."

"Woman," says Rhodri, "had you but known the power of the Cup you hold, you would not offer him the Water of Life, but rather you would offer him Living Water. For the Water of Life merely restores the body, which perishes. But Living Water replenishes the spirit, and he who drinks of it shall not thirst again."

"Foolish priest!" says the priestess. "You have destroyed the Old Religion with your prating!"

They squabble over the chalice, and it overturns, spilling out water, which flows uselessly into the sand, as Merlin holds Arthur's body in his arms.