‘You try to suck all the joy out of it, Derfel,’ Igraine said crossly, though she was never truly angry with me. ‘I want it to be the poet’s Camelot: green grass and high towers and ladies in gowns and warriors strewing their paths with flowers. I want minstrels and laughter! Wasn’t it ever like that?’ ‘A little,’ I said, ‘though I don’t remember many flowery paths. I do recall the warriors limping out of battle, and some of them crawling and weeping with their guts trailing behind in the dust.’ ‘Stop it!’ Igraine said. ‘So why do the bards call it Camelot?’ she challenged me. ‘Because poets
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