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“Are you sure we should let the likes of him into the village with that great big worm pulling his wagon?” grumbles old man Simmons into his pint pot. “Treacherous things, those fire-breathing lizards. Could roast the lot of us and eat us for breakfast.”
They’re in Ealdor’s only tavern – more of a hut really, Ealdor not being the largest village in Albion, nor close to any major trade routes, but it has a startled goat sign outside that indicates it welcomes visitors.
Hunith has done her best to make it welcoming. She keeps the hearth warm, with a kettle of broth available for all comers, which has the happy effect of filling the air with the scent of cooking meat and herbs, thus masking the more prosaic Ealdorean smell of wood smoke and horse-dung. Merry brasses hang above the fire – alongside horseshoes and sprigs of heather for luck. She replaces the straw on the floor every day and keeps the flagons of locally brewed ale cool in the cellar – more a hole in the ground, really, but it serves the purpose and her ale is much prized among the good citizens of the village. Some of whom are keeping her company now. There’s Alice and Matthew sitting up at the bar with Old Man Simmons. And now Balinor, of course, strumming his lute and humming along as he tunes it.
“As long as he keeps the creature under control, why not?” says Matthew, taking a glug of his own brew. “It’s a good thing he’s here, right enough, given the rate at which you lot break ordinary pint pots. At least his dragon-forged ones are unbreakable. I’ll warrant even you are sipping out of one of ‘em, Simmons, you grumpy old git.”
“There’s no need for that sort of language, Matthew,” says Hunith, who likes to think she has a talent for soothing troubled waters. “And I won’t have you slandering my customers, either, Simmons. Balinor is a valued visitor to these parts.”
Which is good for trade. The place is filling up - and not only with the men of the village, for once - several maids are turning up too, along with a couple of the women her age. They don’t get many handsome bards in Ealdor, especially not ones with the voice of an angel. Plus, the glazes on his earthenware are second to none – probably because of the advantages, in terms of kiln firing, bestowed by having a dragon along for the ride. That and the ability to fly off and find the best clay whenever he runs out.
“But where’s it going to sleep, that dragon I mean? Murder us all in our beds, I’ll warrant,” Simmons is going on.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, why on earth would Kilgharrah do that?” Annoyed, Hunith rolls her eyes, applying more than the average amount of vigour as she wipes down the bar with her cloth. “Let the poor thing sleep behind my cottage. I’m not afraid of him. Give him a sheep to gnaw on and he’s as good as gold.”
“Oh, Kilgharrah is it, now?” says Simmons, surly as ever. “First name terms with a dragon are you? You want to be careful, girl, you’ll be telling us you can hear it, next, and then you’ll have all the knights of Camelot swarming around Ealdor to have you hung for a witch.”
“But we’re not in Camelot,” Hunith points out.
She can, in fact, hear the dragon speak. Kilgharrah can probably make himself heard by whomever he chooses. But she won’t tell the rest of the village that, for obvious reasons. Besides which, he insists on calling her stupid names like “mother of magic”, which would be dangerous if it got out.
“Huh.” Simmons snorts. “That Uther, doesn’t care about little things like boundaries, not when he’s got a bee in his bonnet about magic, or so I’ve heard. No, he’ll get his men to hunt us down and split us open with their swords if he hears even a hint that there might be a witch here. They say he’s like a bear with a sore head since his wife died last year. So, just you watch your step.” He swigs the rest of his pint with an air of triumph at this pronouncement and belches in satisfaction.
God. What a pig. Hunith wrinkles her nose in distaste.
Oblivious to this by-play, or at least, generous enough to pretend to be, Balinor settles by the fire, leaning over his lute now that he’s finished his bowl of stew. Looking up for a second, he locks eyes with her and sends her a surreptitious wink that makes her flush hot and red to the roots of her hair. She’s glad it is too dim in this hut for any to see her girlish blush.
“Give us a tune, then,” she calls out to him, and then, feeling greatly daring, returns the wink.
“For you, pretty lady,” he says, bowing. His beard wraps around his mouth pleasingly when he smiles – a secret expression, bestowed only on her, that makes her heart skip and sing in her chest. “This is the ballad of Balinor and Kilgharrah”.
They call him Balinor, he sings now, his voice a fine tenor, deep and manly and filled with feeling. The mere sound of it causes her to squeal out loud and clap before he has had a chance even to begin. The tavern falls silent. Even old man Simmons stops grumbling into his pot and turns to listen. Directing another one of those tiny, private smiles at her, Balinor plucks at his lyre, fine-tuning the strings as he sings:
They call him Balinor
Bard of the pots
His dragon, Kilgharrah
Keeps his kiln hot
A couple more of Ealdor’s local residents, hearing the music through the doorway, are starting to trickle in. Hunith rushes to serve them. Meanwhile, Balinor takes a swig from his flagon of ale, raising it to the newcomers in greeting before going on:
With clay and kiln and wheel for hire
Travels Balinor, ready to throw and to fire
Glazes galore, to amaze and inspire
With thumbs just as skilful at plucking the lyre
Oh, they call him Balinor
Bard of the pots
His old friend Kilgharrah
Keeps that kiln hot
Why does he stay, this gnarly old lizard?
With warts on his skin and stones in his gizzard?
Well, the fact is a lizard, while good in a blizzard,
Is not quite a match for the world’s strongest wizard
Oh, they call him Balinor
Bard of the pots
With the mighty Kilgharrah
To keep his kiln hot
When Balinor calls, the dragon must come
Heeding the call of the lyre’s tuneful strum
Plucked by the dragonlord’s tuneful thumb
Gladly he flies through the drizzling skies
To the dragonlord’s voice he will always succumb
Oh, they call him Balinor
Bard of the pots
With reluctant Kilgharrah
To keep that kiln hot
Draining the well to fill his flagon,
Balinor corners the grumpy old dragon
Drapes his weighty saddlebags on
Hitches him on to his eldritch wagon
Oh, they call him Balinor
Bard of the pots
With grumpy Kilgharrah
To keep that kiln hot
Together they bring you the news of the day
And hands to shape and fire the clay
At night he sleeps on a bed made of hay
In the morning, he’s already gone far away
Oh, they call him Balinor
Bard of the pots
With fierce Kilgharrah
To keep that kiln hot
Who knows what awaits
The whims of the fates?
Be of good cheer, sup up your beer
And let’s all fill our mouths while I make some more plates
To this last admonition, there’s a roar of approval from the growing crowd. For as well as being handsome, and strong, and in charge of his own bloody dragon, Balinor has single-handedly brought more trade to Hunith’s little tavern than any manner of other inducements she might dream up. Small wonder that she is half way in love with him.
“You are a hospitable woman, and wise,” says Albion's Greatest Dragon later as he curls up behind Hunith’s cottage, munching on a sheep that she has brought to him from her flock. It is a delicious animal, plump and well fed. “Which is why you have been chosen for a great task.”
“Oh, give over, you great big softie.” She has the audacity to laugh. Sceptical, as all those who hear his prophecies are at first. She has more than half an eye on the door, and is beginning to turn away from him already when she adds, “you’re just saying that because you like my sheep. And what, pray, is this great so-called task of which you speak?”
“Sarcasm does not become you.” He sighs and shakes his head. It is a terrible fate, not to be believed. “Your task is great indeed. For you are destined to bring magic incarnate into this world.”
“Shh, you daft creature.” She shivers, though, as if she feels the cold hand of fate brushing against her skin, and turns to face him with her hands on her hips as if preparing to scold a petulant child. She even waggles a finger at him. If she hadn't prepared such a delicious meal for him, he would be tempted to roast her where she stood.
“You dare to scold me,” he warns. “That is bold indeed, for I am both ancient and powerful.”
“You’re also ungrateful if you sit there gnawing on the bones of one of my sheep, freely given, and tell me off for doubting you.”
“I am not ungrateful, mother of magic.”
“Mother of magic?” Her voice goes up in pitch. “Mother of magic? For heaven’s sake. No doubt you mean that I’ll be a mother to someone or another important, because the fates hate women for some reason, nasty vindictive things they are, and can’t countenance a woman being important in her own right, and have to force her to carry another person, presumably a boy, because the goddess forbid that a mere girl should carry the fate of the world on her shoulders, in her belly before she can merit a tiny footnote in the annals of history. Well, trust me, I’m not the virgin bleedin’ Mary, and have no intention of having a story that begins and ends with motherhood. And anyway, you’ll have old man Simmons calling in Uther and his knights if you even hint at such things. And I don’t care much for prophecies and all that. What’s here and now. That’s what matters. Not some nebulous possible future. Of motherhood.”
Picking up her skirts, she stalks back to the cottage and disappears inside, slamming the door behind her.
“If you say so, mother of magic,” Kilgharrah watches her disappear into the hut with one eye while the other focuses on his meal. “If you say so.”
THE END