“Soon they shall wash my feet,” he said to himself, “those laughing savages under the awning, Uther Guletic himself. Yes, and the one who ploughed with the bulls. Especially he. I will throw the water into his face afterwards.”
Medrodus looked again at Uther Pendragon. He noted the full red cloak, held at the shoulder by a massive garnet brooch, its setting of dark bronze; the sky-blue tunic, pinched in about the waist by a belt of a hand’s span in breadth, bossed at intervals with red coral, from which hung a silver-hilted hunting knife in a scabbard of heavy Spanish leather.
His envious gaze travelled down the man’s body, to the bright red and yellow breeches, strapped round thigh and calf with thongs of plaited hide. He observed the thinness of those legs, the limbs of a man who had w
