by Jack Whyte
"Why would he do that? Your people don't take slaves, do they? And you've no place and no time for prisoners. In any case I thought your Chief Druid was with us in Camulod at that time. Was he not the one in the red robes, officiating at the nuptials along with Bishop Alaric?"
"Aye, he was. Llew was his name. He's dead now and was replaced by a man called Daris five years ago. The trouble had begun elsewhere among the Druids, long before my marriage to Veronica, with a group of disaffected malcontents known as the Black Brethren. These people thought they could break away from what they saw as weaknesses in the faith and re-establish the ancient ways—or their ideas of the ancient ways. They revived the traditions whispered of in the tales of the great human burnings, when captured enemies were offered to the gods in sacrifice and Cambria was strong and proud. Such tales as those you have probably never heard, for nothing of the kind has happened in more than half a thousand years. But the stories persist among our people, and the tradition has never been forgotten.
"These mad priests used their power and their place within our lives to instill deep fear of the ancient gods in those people who would listen to them. And many people did, many people from all levels of our folk. Powys was not the only Chief or lesser chieftain they seduced. And they moved quickly, once they had decided to go forward with their plans. They enforced their viewpoints and their commands in secrecy, using blood oaths and dreadful threats of punishment for betrayal, exercising fear as the potent force that it is. Their movement, if you could even call it that, was a kind of insurrection against Llew the Chief Druid and his ways. It came to naught, as it turned out, because that single incident of the Tir Manha burning brought about their end.
"When we arrived from Camulod that night, sunset had caught us within several miles of home, but since we anticipated no danger there in our own lands, we decided to press on in the darkness and sleep in our own beds in Tir Manha . . . You can have no idea how much, or how often, I have regretted that decision."
"No, I believe you. But wait you . . ." There came another silence, and then Uther heard the sound of more footsteps approaching from a distance.
"Caius?" he heard his grandfather ask, his voice tight with irritation. "What are you doing in here? You know you're not supposed to bring your friends clattering through the house like raiding Outlanders."
"We're looking for Uther, Uncle."
"That matters not to me, lad. If you have eyes in your head and the sense with which to use them, you will see that Uther is not here. Now, off with you and seek him somewhere else. Your Uncle Uric and I are trying to talk, so away you go and leave us to our affairs. But go quietly, because if your Aunt Luceiia finds you charging through the house like that, you'll all be in trouble. And close those doors as you go out, if you please."
Moments later, after the footsteps had retreated more quietly than they had approached, Varrus spoke again.
"So, I gather that you arrived home to find this sacrifice already underway. But you must have known what was happening, from all the light and the activity. Surely you could have spirited your wife away from all of it? The glow from thirty-two fires must have been bright indeed."
"Thirty-two—? No, there was but one fire, Publius, in the burning pit. The prisoners were all confined in cages, suspended above it." In the space of a few stark moments, Uric outlined the sight that had awaited the returning party on their arrival, and Uther listened, fascinated, as his mind tried to recreate what the scene must have looked and sounded like.
When Uric had finished speaking, Publius Varrus remained quiet for a while, absorbing what he had been told.
"By the Christ," he said eventually in a flat, stunned voice. "I remember your father describing this pit to me, years ago. But he made no mention of that kind of thing. This is barbarism beyond anything I have ever known or heard of. And Ullic did nothing to stop it?"
"He was as confused as all the rest of us. Nothing like that had ever happened in living memory, and none of us really knew what to expect."
"Your Druids must have known!"
"Aye, the dark ones did—the Black Brethren—but they were the only ones. And they had had time to work on those of us who had stayed home by invoking the three-day law. The prisoners had been captive for three days by then, you see. And our ancient laws decree that if a prisoner is to die, he should be killed within three days of being taken. Failing that, he should be kept as a working slave or else set free. If he is killed after three days, however, his spirit remains to haunt and terrify his murderers."
"That is nonsense."
"No, Publius, that is our ancient law . . . Druidic law."
"Based upon fear and superstition."
"Based upon our beliefs. Cambria isn't Camulod, Publius." Uther heard his father pacing anxiously and the exasperation in his voice when he spoke again. "You have open spaces, high walls and Roman comforts. You have warmth and light in abundance—line, pure tapers and candles of beeswax, with bright, coal-burning braziers and blazing torches fuelled by carefully rendered tallow and clear oils. Not so with us. We are ruled by the night and the darkness, and our people fear the beings that infest the night. You, with your Roman-bred beliefs, you can smile at us for being superstitious, but we must live with who we are and what we know. We believe that the spirits of the dead walk freely among us in the dark of night, and that only the goodwill of our gods keeps them from terrorizing us. When the gods are not pleased, we are at the mercy of the night. We are Celts, Publius, not Romans. That is not superstition to us . . . it is the very stuff of life and truth, and believe me when I tell you it is difficult to feel that you are being foolish and superstitious when your blood has turned to water and your bones to jelly because of the blind terror that has eaten you whole."
"Aye, I suppose . . . and your Druids encourage you in all of that"
"Of course they do. They are our priests."
"So what of this Llew, what did he do that night?"
"Nothing. He was overpowered and knocked unconscious by the rebel priests as soon as he arrived, captured out of our sight and carried off before any of us knew what was going on. Then my father's father's councillors came to us, suborned as they had been by the black priests, and convinced him that it was the will of all the gods— and all the Druids—that the sacrifice proceed and that the spirits of the prisoners be freed, since plainly we could not turn them all loose or keep them all penned up as slaves and prisoners. My father saw the truth of that and thus permitted them to proceed, albeit with great reluctance, and the sacrifice began. Only then did I begin to realize what was really happening.
"The burning pit had always been there, since before I was born, and I had seen it used on several occasions to burn the remains of high-born men, chiefs and Druids. But I had never known of its being used to burn the living. I tried to take Veronica out of there then, finally aware of what might happen, but in seeking to protect her, I made the mistake of not telling her what was really taking place, and so she balked and ran away from me towards the fires and the smoke and the sacrifice, not knowing what was there . . ."
"And . . . ?"
"It was a full month and more before she spoke another word, to me or anyone. It was as though she lay in a trance, even though she ate and drank when meat and drink were offered her. I almost lost my wits before the end of that."
"Why did we hear nothing of this?"
"Because that was how Veronica wished it to be. As she recovered, she decided that it could serve no useful purpose to upset you and her mother with word of what she had endured. And by that time, she was well swollen with little Uther and no one wanted to talk much of anything other than that."
"Aye. And your own people, how did they react to what was done that night by these Black Brethren?"
"Well, talking about offering a human sacrifice and actually performing a human sacrifice are not at all the same thing. Once our people saw the smoke and heard the screams and smelled the stink of charring flesh,
they quickly lost all their lust for the old days. Tir Manha was a quiet, shame-filled place for long, long weeks after that night."
"And what about the priests, these so-called rebels who dreamed up this thing?"
"Well, we found out by the following morning what had been happening, and we found them on the point of killing Llew just in time to stop them. Then we killed them all."
"How? You burned them, didn't you? Threw them into their own pit?"
"No, Publius, we did not burn them. That thing, that burning was . . . there is a Roman word for it I've heard you use . . . an aberration. It was an evil thing, born of a few evil men who made it happen through fear. We Pendragons are not a wicked people, Publius, and we are certainly not evil. You know that. We have never burned another person since that night, and we never will. We simply cut the rebel priests down wherever we found them. No ceremony involved. That would have made them seem important. We simply killed them out of hand. And then we filled in the burning pit completely and used it for their common grave, leaving it unmarked. There were forty-four of them in all in our lands. More than a few, but not enough, in the long run, to generate any significant threat to Llew, his brethren and their teachings. There might have been others of their kind elsewhere, beyond our territories, but if there were we heard nothing of them once the word had spread of how the Black Brethren in King Ullic's land had died."
"Aye, well . . ." Publius Varrus sighed deeply. "Uric, I know you are not evil, nor is your father. But I tell you honestly, I cannot conceive of such a thing happening ever, under any circumstances, among our people in Camulod or elsewhere in any other place that I know of. There is something fundamentally, intrinsically wrong with people who could do such things, no matter what the provocation."
Uther listened, his chest tight, waiting for his father to digest those words and then respond to them. And for the longest time, it sounded as though no answer would be made. But then his father spoke again, his voice little more than a whisper.
"You're right, Publius, you're right. There is a darkness within our Cambrian spirits that permits us, as a folk, to do such things. We did them in the dim and far-off past, in the smoky shadows of black night and at the urging of our priests, and we have shown that we could do them still today, given the proper drive. It is cause for deep shame."
"No, son, it is cause for awareness and great care in future time, but not for further shame. As you have said, you've never burned a man, and you never will. Be sure to remind your people, though, that they did once, and that they regretted it. But Veronica—tell me truly, what has this to do with her wanting no more children?"
When Uther heard his father's voice again, it was filled with certainty and conviction. "I believe she is determined that no child of hers will ever grow to live in Cambria among the Pendragon and offer human sacrifice. I think she blames all of my people for what happened that night. She has made friends among us I have no doubt of that, but she will never fully trust any of us ever . . . I believe, too, that something has gone wrong within her mind, and because of that, she fears now that any other children she might have with me will be infected with the darkness that lies in our past and in our blood. That, I truly believe, is the root and cause of her refusal to have more."
Another pause as his grandfather pondered, Uther supposed, and then a sigh. "I think the same, Uric. And I believe it rests with you and me to help her forget all about this." Uther could imagine the two men sipping thoughtfully from the cups they held. Then, "One more thing. What about the boy?"
"Uther? What about him?"
"How does she feel about him?"
Listening breathlessly, Uther knew the time that elapsed then must have been short, but to him it seemed endless as he waited for his father to reply.
"What do you mean?"
He had a mental image of his father's face creased in puzzlement.
"Well, if she is so upset over the thought of having more children to be corrupted by your Druids, or whomever else she sees as being responsible, then it seems to me that it might be because of something she has seen, or thinks to have seen, in young Uther.
You did say that for several years she gave no indication of her fears. Something, then, must have triggered them, and it occurred to me it might have been the boy."
Uther could barely understand what his father was being asked. Was he being accused of hurting his own mother? Apparently his lather was equally confused, because it was some time before he answered, and then he said simply, "Publius, he's your grandson."
"I know he is, and I could not love him more were we twins. But Uther possesses all the attributes that any other, future child of yours might have . . . and that means he has all the failings and the flaws, as well as the strengths. It is those flaws and failings-—how did you refer to them earlier, as a darkness that lies within your past and in your blood?—that Veronica claims to fear. How, then, does she perceive her son? Is she afraid of him or for him?"
"No, of course not! Neither one nor the other. She loves him. I swear it, Publius. Veronica loves Uther."
To Uther's ear, however, his father's words rang unconvincingly. There had been a pause, a hesitation, that lasted a tiny moment too long. His grandfather thought so too.
"I think you're wrong there, Uric, and I think you know it, down in the depths of you. Oh, not in the part about her loving him, for I believe wholeheartedly that my daughter loves her son—it shines out of her like a pure light whenever she sees him. But I believe in my gut that Veronica fears deeply for the boy and always has, ever since his birth, and probably for months before that. I believe that is why she has always insisted, ever since the boy was old enough to walk, that he spend as much time as he does in Camulod with young Caius. I'm beginning to suspect that Uther would be sent to Camulod each year even if Caius were not there."
When next he spoke, Uric sounded unsure of himself. "If what you say is true, there is no logic in it. I had never thought of it before now, but Uther himself ought to be a shining reason for Veronica to want more children. There's nothing wrong with him."
"But we are not discussing logic here, Uric. We are discussing women, their ideas and their instinctual fears. It is not her unborn children that threaten poor Veronica, it is the dread of what evil men might do to them, and therein lies her folly and her sickness, for if all women were to shut themselves up as she has, refusing to bear children for fear the world might damage or corrupt them, then our whole race of men would soon die out and leave this world to the beasts . . .
"Our task, as I see it, is to work from now on to convince your wife that her own teachings will be stronger than the urgings of evil men. She is the one who, as a mother, will show her sons and daughters the light of hope and goodness that burns in the deepest darkness. You agree?"
"Yes . . . yes, of course I do."
"Good, then let's go and make a beginning."
When the two men had gone, Uther emerged, holding the edge of the curtain carefully and lowering it gently as he left his hiding place. He moved slowly across the room towards a large padded and upholstered armchair facing the stone hearth in the end wall, stopped when his hip bumped against it but made no move to sit. Instead, he stood staring sightlessly into the empty fireplace, his eyes unfocused as he grappled with the strange and troubling new thought that had been implanted in his mind: his mother feared him. His mind had accepted what it heard, because there was no logical reason to do otherwise . . . the two men speaking had not known that he was there, so they'd had no reason to speak other than truthfully. But his young mind, overwhelmed by that sudden realization, had also failed to establish any distinction between his mother being afraid of him and afraid for him.
Uther Pendragon was now a very different person from the carefree boy who had dashed into the room a half-hour earlier. Then the biggest and most immediate problem in his mind had been the need to find a perfect hiding place. Now he had been changed forever and had aged immeasurably. No
w he was fighting to accept, and to adjust to, the awareness that his own beloved mother was afraid of him, afraid of some dark side of him, some elemental thing that lay imbedded in his very nature, some aspect of his being that she had learned to fear and distrust long before he was born, when she herself was a young girl, not many years older than he was now. Whatever it was, that thing had terrified her thoroughly, enough to alter her lifelong determination to mother an entire brood of children.
Uther discovered that he had no wish to know what that thing was, for if it had the power to terrify his mother, he knew it would frighten him beyond bearing. He hated the thought that his mother might be afraid of him, but he hated even more the suspicion that she might distrust him in some basic, formless way. He knew she loved him. He had heard his grandfather say that her smile lit up the room whenever she set eyes on him, and he knew that was true because he had seen it with his own eyes. How, then, could she be afraid of him? What was there in him, in his very nature, that could make even his mother fear him?
That was a question Uther Pendragon would never be able to answer, for he could never know that what his Roman-bred mother feared lay not within him, but in the very nature of his Celtic people.
Chapter TWO
Garreth Whistler might never have heard the sound had he not been in love. As it was, his mind was so full of thoughts of the woman called Laminda and the risk he was taking, meeting her in broad daylight with her husband close by that he was temporarily incapable of whistling, and he strode quietly across the meadow surrounding the King's House, hearing only the sound of his own feet swishing through the long grass that awaited the scythe. As he neared the ancient stone-built cattle byre beneath the large oak tree on the southeast corner of the King's Holding, the portion of land allocated to the King by his people for his living, he hesitated, wondering which of two possible routes might offer him the best chance of reaching his assignation unseen. And in that moment of utter stillness he heard a stifled whimper coming from the ruined building.