“Who is Uther Pendragon, the King.”
Jehan’s blue eyes seemed to dilate till they looked strangely large in his thin white face.
“The King!” he said, in a kind of whisper.
Mark made all plain to him in a few words.
“The Lady Igraine loved Pelleas, as well she might, not knowing him to be Ambrosius’s brother. It was this same great love that brought her in peril of Gorlois’s sword. It is this same love that draws her down to her death—there in Tintagel. Uther Pendragon is at Caerleon; her hope is with him. You, Jehan, shall carry word of this to the King.”
The lad’s heart was beating like the heart of a giant. The world seemed to expand about him, to grow luminous with the glory of great deeds; he had the braying of a hundred trumpets in his ears. He heard swords ring, saw banners blow, and towers topple like smitten trees.
“I am the King’s servant,” he said.
“You have sworn troth; so be it. You shall go to the King, to Uther Pendragon, at Caerleon. Tell him you had this ring from a soldier, bribed to deliver it by the Lady Igraine. Tell him the evil that is done to her in the castle of Tintagel. Tell him all—withhold nothing.”
Jehan flushed to the temples; his lips moved, but no words came from them. He stood stiff and erect, looking out to sea, following with his eyes the sweep of Mark’s spear.