The Eagles' Brood cc-3

by Jack Whyte

  "Want to try to reach the bottom?"

  "No," I remember saying. "We'd never -"'

  Uther cut me short, his hand raised, his body tensing. "What's that?"

  He sat erect and twisted to look behind us. "Whoreson!" he spat. "Saxons!"

  I spun and looked towards the camp. There was a battle raging there and our people were heavily outnumbered, and even as I looked I saw four blond-haired strangers running towards us, naked iron in their hands, their mouths open in yells of battle lust.

  Uther was already on his feet. "Quick, Cay! Get out of here!" I scrambled for my clothes.

  "Forget your clothes, grab your knife!" He was already running for his pony.

  I snatched up my knife and ran for my own mount, grasping its mane and swinging myself hard up onto its sun- hot, dusty back. Both animals were galloping almost from a standing start.

  "Split up," yelled Uther. "You go right!" He swung away to the left and I wheeled my pony in the opposite direction, looking back over my shoulder to see what our pursuers would do. It was obvious that they were surprised to see only two small, naked boys. It must have been our ponies that attracted them in the first place, for they could not have seen us lying by the water's edge. They had stopped running as we split up, and they stood staring after us, having no hope of catching us on foot and no great desire to tire themselves out chasing naked children. I pulled my pony to a halt and sat watching them, feeling safely distant, as they approached the tarn and found our clothes and our tores, the heavy, decorative gold collars that marked us as chief's sons.

  That discovery made them decide we might be worth pursuing after all. One of them, the tallest, dropped his axe and shield, threw off his helmet and fur tunic, and came after me at a run. I sat and watched him, knowing that he could never catch my fleet-footed pony. When he was about twenty-five paces from me I swung my mount again and kicked him to a dead run. Only then did I look around for Uther, but he was nowhere to be seen. The fringe of the forest was about two hundred paces ahead of me and I aimed my pony at it like an arrow, easily outdistancing my pursuer. Then, fifty paces short of the sheltering trees, my mount tripped and fell, hurling me over his head, the distinct sound of his snapping foreleg in my ears.

  I landed on my back and knocked myself out of breath completely. When I regained my senses, the pony's screaming ringing through my head, the big Saxon was close, not even breathing hard, an evil grin on his face. I watched him approach me as I struggled for breath. The pony had thrown me about eight paces. The man stopped by the screaming animal, drew a knife, and then bent over to saw at the creature's throat. The sight triggered all my survival instincts, and I came to my feet running as fast as my legs could pump. He must have been absorbed in what he was doing, because I had covered about half the distance to the trees before I heard his shout, and then I heard the sounds of his running feet, gaining on me with every stride of his long legs. Still ahead of him, I came to the edge of the trees, dodging to my left as I passed the first of them, and then swerving again, and again as I passed each successive tree, changing direction sharply all the way. I knew that I was running for my life.

  I was lucky that the forest was thick, even here on the fringe, and that I was so small, for I was able to burrow at a dead run into places where my pursuer could not follow. Slowly and surely I gained distance on him, fighting my way into the thickest clumps of underbrush and worming through, until eventually I knew that he was thrashing far enough behind me to give me a breathing space.

  I dove under the roots of a great, lightning-split tree and crouched there in terror, hearing the thundering of my own heart over the approaching noise of my pursuer. And then he stopped moving and I knew that he was listening for me, searching the woods around him carefully with his eyes and ears, but I did not know how close he was. The silence grew and lengthened until I could stand it no longer and I eased myself upright and cautiously raised my head. He was nowhere in sight. Then, being only eight, I did a very foolish thing. I climbed higher in order to see further, believing him gone, and there he was, looking at me from less than thirty pages away, across the top of the last thicket I had dived through. He saw me as I saw him and he plunged into the bushes towards me as I launched myself away from him, running with wings on my heels after the few moments' rest I had gained. I ran and ran, choosing the densest thickets again, unmindful of the stinging slash of brambles and nettles and springy twigs, until suddenly I broke from a screen of bushes to find myself in an open, grassy glade of huge old oak trees, their branches choked with mistletoe, the sacred berries of the Druids. I could hear him crashing too close behind me, and in panic, gathering the last of my strength, I threw myself at the biggest oak and scrambled up high into its branches, seeking to hide among the tangled mistletoe. Up and up I went until I could climb no higher, and there I crouched, hugging a branch, and watched him enter the glade.

  He stopped on the edge of the clearing, out on the open grass, and looked all around him, peering and listening. Then he began to walk towards the tree in which I was hiding. I was almost sick with dread and terrified that I would lose my hold and tumble from my perch to land at his feet, and in my fear I hiccoughed. He heard me. Dumb with terror, I watched his head come up as he searched the tree until his eyes found me. I can still remember the expression on his face as he smiled an awful smile and beckoned to me to come down, talking to me in his heathen tongue, although we both knew, he and I, that he was going to have to come up and get me.

  He had to try three times to get his first purchase on a low branch, but after that he began to climb surely, and more and more quickly, towards my perch. I was saying all my small boy's prayers as he came, willing him to trust a too weak branch and fall, to be too big to come higher— anything to stop him coming closer.

  And then I heard the thump of heavy hooves and I saw him freeze and look down. I could see nothing, for the bole of the tree was between me and the sounds, but the Saxon forgot me immediately and began to drop, hand over hand, almost falling from branch to branch in his haste to regain the ground, and then he jumped and landed sprawling, rolling forward and over like a cat and coming to his feet on the run, dagger in hand. The clump of hooves was below me now and suddenly there was a man on a huge, running red horse that bowled the Saxon over by striking him with its shoulder. Before his sprawling form could even come to rest, the rider pinned him to the ground with a spear between his shoulders, and the Saxon squirmed and kicked for long moments before he finally was still. The horseman left his spear sticking up into the air and turned to look up at me, twisting his body sideways so that he could see up to where I was.

  "What are you? A Druid god?"

  I said nothing, swallowing hard, trying to control my terror.

  "Can you get down from there by yourself?"

  I tried to say yes, but nothing came out.

  "Well? Come on down. He's dead. You're safe enough, now. I have no cause to hurt you."

  Still I did not move. My rescuer dismounted and pulled his spear free from the body of the man he had killed, bracing his foot on the corpse to give him purchase. This done, he wiped the blade clean on the dead man's tunic and then stepped back to his horse, stroking its muzzle and talking softly to it, although loudly enough for me to overhear what he was saying.

  "Now, Horse," he said, "there is a boy, a boy with no clothes on, hiding up in the tree above your head. I'm telling you this so that you won't be frightened when he comes down, for he looks ferocious. I promise you that he won't hurt you, Horse, if you don't hurt him." He stopped and looked back up at me again. "Are you coming down, boy? You're keeping me from my meal. I've been riding all night long and have not broken fast today, and there's a tasty rabbit stew simmering on my fire, not half a mile from here. Now you may not be hungry, but I am starved, so it will please me greatly if you will come down and let me get back to my food."

  Slowly, feeling my way with care, I climbed down from my refuge, suddenly feeling all
the cuts and scrapes that I had gathered in my flight, and all at once aware of the abrasive bark of the great oak that had sheltered me. As I reached the last branch above the ground, my rescuer leaped nimbly up onto his horse's back and ambled over to me. I was perched now about three feet above him. He smiled at me and I knew I was really safe.

  "What was all that about? Who was this fellow?" He indicated the dead man.

  "A Saxon. A raider. They caught us away from our camp, swimming. He chased me and I ran."

  "He must have chased you a long way. Why did he do that? I would have let you go."

  "He found my tore."

  "He what?"

  "He found my tore. My gold collar. He knew I am the son of a chief, and he meant to kill me."

  "So, you're the son of a chief, are you? Not just a chieftain, eh? A full chief! I'm impressed. What do you call yourself? And how does a Celtic chief's son come to speak Latin so well?"

  I drew myself erect and spoke with all the dignity I could muster, determined, naked and bruised as I was, to impress this stranger. "I am of Roman blood. My name is Caius. Caius Merlinus Britannicus. My father is a Legate of Rome. He rides with Stilicho."

  The effect of my pronouncement upon him was salutary. He choked. As he spluttered and coughed, his horse pranced nervously, skittering around so that I lost sight of the rider's face, but eventually he regained control both of himself and of his horse and came to a stop, facing me again, his eyes wide and red with coughing.

  "Pardon me," he said. "I swallowed some spit the wrong way. So, your father is a Legate? Well, he ought to be, to have burdened you with a name like that. Merlinus? That's not a Roman name. At least, I've never heard of it before."

  "No," I admitted. "You are right, it's not. It's really Merlyn. That's Celtic."

  "I see." He shook his head, now wearing a grin of open disbelief that even I could decipher, and held up his right hand to me. "Here, take my hand and swing yourself down here in front of me. A man with a name like that should ride in front." I did as he bade me and he held me in place with his left arm. "Can you ride, boy?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good, then hold my spear and hang on to the horse's mane. We'll be at my camp very quickly."

  He did not lie. I barely had time to tell him about Uther and our flight from the well before I smelled wood-smoke, and we broke from the trees again to find a well-ordered camp where five other men lay resting. They all looked at us curiously as we rode up to the fire.

  "General," my rescuer said, "I think this young man should meet you. He tells me his name is Caius Merlyn Britannicus." He lowered me gently to the ground in front of the fire where a giant of a man in black leather armour stood up to tower over me, a strange expression on his face.

  "Caius Merlyn Britannicus," said my rescuer, "this is the Legate Caius Picus Britannicus."

  My father had come home.

  III

  How does a boy find out about his father? About the man himself, I mean? The fact is, he does not. At least, not the truth about the things the world holds to be important, for when a boy is still a boy, such things truly do not matter. I only discovered my father after I became a man myself, and much of what I have discovered since his death has been made available to me, as I have already said, simply because I am Merlyn. As a boy, I found my father to be a mystical, almost mythical presence on the periphery of my life. He was constantly at war throughout my childhood and my boyhood and I saw him only briefly and occasionally, on his infrequent visits home.

  Broad-shouldered, deep-chested and heavily muscled, Picus Britannicus was more than simply a big man. In a world where normal men were five and a half feet tall, he towered more than six. Fully half a head taller than his tallest subordinate, he was a soldier from head to toe, inside and out. He was magnificent to look at, with his unusual golden hair, a splendid tunic of white wool bordered with a thick, black stripe, and his gleaming, highly polished black leather armour and equipment. Even the crest on his helmet was striking, composed of alternate clumps of black and white horsehair. The only part of his dress that did not fit his strict colour scheme was the bronze hilt of the short-sword that hung by his right side, the sword given to him by Uncle Varrus when he first joined the legions. His horses, too— always jet black—were specially selected for their height, so that he was prominent no matter where he went, drawing men's eyes by his size, and by the flashing whiteness of the soft, white wool that lined his great black war cloak. My father was every man's vision of a Commander, and his soldiers loved him.

  To his small son, however, he was a daunting, intimidating figure. He spoke little, for an arrow had torn his throat before I was born and had left him with a terrible affliction, so that when he did speak his words were laboured and guttural. He was determined to overcome this failing, however, and as he grew older he did defeat it to a very great extent. He wore his golden hair long, an affectation to cover the hideous scar where the arrow that pierced his mouth had emerged through the back of his neck, and that also marked him as singular among the short-haired Romans whom he led.

  On that first day I met him, he awed me completely. The first thing he did after looking me over in silent, wide-eyed surprise was to pick me up by the elbows and lift me like a feather, up into the air until I came eye to eye with him. Then he grinned a huge grin, full of white teeth, and shook me, gently, and placed me back on the ground, growling something I couldn't understand. His men all stepped to meet me, shaking hands with me solemnly, as though I were a man, while the one who had saved me recounted my adventure almost word for word the way I had told him it happened.

  This man was Titus, it turned out, one of my father's friends of whom I had heard and read. Another, Quintus Flavius, knelt by the fire, tending the rabbit stew Titus had been savouring on his scouting patrol around the camp before he found me.

  As soon as Titus had finished recounting my story, my father looked at me. "Uther?" he growled. "Where is he?"

  I shrugged, aware of my own confusion. "I don't know where he went, sir."

  "Was he followed?"

  Again I shrugged. "I don't know."

  "Right. Mount up!"

  We left the fire burning. Flavius upended the cooking pot into the coals and a hissing cloud of smoke and ashes whirled into the air. In a matter of seconds we were all mounted and heading back the way Titus and I had come. I rode in front of my father this time, my nakedness covered by his long cloak, and I felt fine, although I was worried about what we might discover on reaching the scene of the attack.

  We emerged from the forest almost at the point where I had entered it, and the first person I saw was Uther, fully dressed, riding towards us with four of his father's men. He saw us at the same time and hauled his pony back in a rearing stop, but even as he prepared to run from this new threat, he saw me mounted in front of my father, and I heard the gladness in his voice as he yelled my name and waved my tunic above his head.

  "That's Uther!" I said. "He has my clothes."

  Two of the men with Uther recognized my father and they came with us as we approached the rest of the survivors. One of my father's men let. out a low whistle of wonder. "Will you look at that!"

  For the first time, we saw the effect of Ullic Pendragon's long, yew bows when they were wielded by trained and determined men. There were Saxon bodies everywhere. I tallied fourteen before losing count. Some of our Celts were out among them, pulling their arrows from the dead and wounded bodies. It turned out that our party had lost four men, killed in the first attack, which had caught them by surprise. Not one had been lost after the bowmen began to light, and the surviving Saxons had fled in terror from the arrows against which they had no defence.

  One of the hillmen laughed as he described what had happened. 'They thought they were safe, you know, inside their fancy ring shirts, until they started falling, pierced through, fancy shirts and all. They've fought against bowmen before, but they've never come up against anything that bites as hard
as our new arrows do. Huw, there, hit one of them smack in the head and pierced him through, helmet and all!"

  "How far away was he?" my father asked.

  "No more than twenty paces. These arrows will go through an oaken board a handsbreadth thick at a hundred and sixty."

  My father grunted, an impatient sound, and looked around at the corpses littering the grass. By this time, all of them had been stripped of weapons and of armour, and these had been dumped into a pile close to one of the cooking fires. Huw, the leader of our party of Celts, noticed the Legate's seeming lack of patience and shouted to his men in their native tongue, telling them to get ready to move out, and ordering that the bodies of our four slain men be thrown across their horses for burial later.

  Titus nodded towards the pile of weapons and armour. "What will you do with those? Do you have a wagon to load them into?"

  "No," growled Huw. "And we can't carry them. I'd thought to bury them. Can't leave them lying around."

  Uther interrupted, his voice sounding out of place among the men. "Offer them to the goddess of the tarn, there, where Caius and I went swimming. It's very deep."

  "Now there's an idea, boy!" Huw took him up on it and immediately detailed four men to carry the booty over and throw it into the pool. "Breaks my heart to see such waste, but a proper sacrifice in thanks for victory never hurt anyone nor went amiss."

  "What about the bodies? The Saxons?" This was Titus again.

  Huw's look of contempt was eloquent as he answered. "What about them then? Let the whoresons rot where they lie. The wolves and crows will not take long to clean them up." Something had caught his attention and he raised his voice to a yell. "Come on, you people! Get a move on, will you? It's twenty miles to Camulod from here! We want to get there during damn daylight! Move your arses!"

  Flavius was frowning slightly, his face showing puzzlement. "Camulod? Where's that?"

  "That's what we call the fort, sir," I answered him. "Camulod."