* * * * *
We turned our horses off the road, following the men ahead for a brief stop. "Where are we?" I gazed at the fallen stones.
"This?" Llywelyn said. "It's a Roman fort. We often rest here." He lifted me from the saddle.
"Yes, but ..." I stopped, trying to take it in. The fort had lost its roof, but the walls still stood fifteen feet high and each at least fifty feet wide, built in a square. I walked across the grass in the clearing and through the open front door, vacant now, and into the cavernous space on the other side, with trees and bushes growing where once a legion had lived. A shiver went down my spine as I touched the stones that men-born two thousand years before I-had chosen, and crafted, and placed here.
Lost in thought, I walked from room to room. I loved everything about history, and the best part was walking in the steps of people who'd come before me-which was good, given that I'd been living history these last months. I came out of my reverie, however, when I entered a small room, nestled in a building along the eastern wall. An altar sat in the center of the room, with words carved into the stone and a picture of a bull.
"What happened here?" I asked Llywelyn, who came to stand beside me.
"It's a chapel, though not to our God. Soldiers worshipped Mithras here. None of the men like to come this way."
I stood uncertainly in the doorway. "I won't either, then. Pagan gods or not, I'm a Welshwoman now. I can respect what they feel."
Llywelyn put his arm around my shoulder and turned me back the way we had come. "Goronwy told me when you first arrived here that he thought he'd call you 'Morgane'-that you saw the future not because you lived it, but in a scrying bowl."
"He didn't!" I said. "Besides, Morgane was Arthur's sister. I don't even have a brother."
Llywelyn laughed and pulled me to him. "You've bewitched me. I suppose that's all that matters."