Bronze lamps had been lit and Percivale and Gareth moved around the spartan room, preparing for the king’s rest and comfort, while Odin leaned impassively against the heavy, wooden door.Their lord’s frugal habits meant that Percivale and Gareth had little to do but put away the High King’s scrolls in their fitted shelves and tidy Artor’s collection of maps. Odin personally tasted the High King’s water, stored in a beaten silver flask, and nibbled at the plates of nuts, cheese and flat bread that were prepared for him. Artor always remonstrated with Odin over his precautions and called him an old woman, but when Artor’s safety was at stake, Odin simply ignored his master’s wishes with a vague, agreeable smile.Artor considered his three closest bodyguards and wondered why they had remained true to him for so long. Odin, the Jutlander, had to be well over sixty, but his tawny hair and greying beard suggested maturity rather than great age. His muscles were still as hard as old oak, while his huge spine remained unbent.
