Uther cc-7

by Jack Whyte

  When he stuck his head around the corner and saw the tear streaked, dirt smeared face of a small boy who huddled against the wall there, wrapped as nearly into a ball as he could achieve, his arms clasped around his upraised knees and his shins oozing blood, Garreth experienced a lucid moment of decision that would surprise him later when he considered what it might have cost him. He recognized the child, saw his misery, in the same instant had a vision of Laminda amorously awaiting him—and he chose immediately to comfort the boy.

  Uther? Is that you? What's wrong, lad?"

  Uther's eyes flew wide, and his seven-year-old heart quailed as he saw the hero who towered over him. Garreth Whistler was his grand- lather Ullic's greatest champion, a mighty warrior whom no one could best with sword or battle-axe, and who could wrestle and beat any other two of King Ullic's Pendragon warriors at any time. Uther was appalled to think that this man, of all men, should be the one to find him cringing and cowering, bawling like a baby and girlishly nursing his hurts. But Garreth Whistler had already propped his shield and his two-headed iron axe in a corner and was now down on one knee in front of him, gently pulling his arms away to uncover the lacerated shin bone that still oozed blood. As he looked at the swollen bruise and the blood that trickled from its centre, the big warrior's frown deepened and his long white moustaches seemed to bristle.

  "What did this, a stone?" The child shook his head, gulping. "What then? A stick?" Another shake of the head. "Did you fall? Let's have a look." He raised the boy's leg and peered at the abrasion closely. "It's a cut, a straight edge. Looks like a blow. You didn't hit anything, something hit you." He paused and glanced up at the boy's face. "Something like a leather-soled boot?"

  Uther nodded miserably.

  "Who?"

  "Ivor."

  "Ivor? Cross-Eyed Ivor?" Again the child nodded. "But he must be, what, three years older than you? He's twice your size." Uther said nothing.

  Garreth sighed and braced himself with one hand, then twisted down and around to sit beside the boy, adjusting his short, wide- bladed sword so that it lay comfortably on the ground alongside his thigh before settling his back against the rough stone wall.

  "Well," he said, "I've always got time for a good story, and I suspect you have one to tell. So let's start right at the beginning— tell me why a great lump like Cross-Eyed Ivor would want to kick a bright little fellow like you."

  The boy sat silent for a while, staring down at the ground, and Garreth made no effort to speak, allowing the silence to stretch until it became clear that the boy would not break it. When he felt it had been long enough, he moved to rise again, speaking as though to himself.

  "Well, if you don't want to talk, I'll be on my way, then, and leave you to your sorrows—"

  "No!" The boy was evidently so shocked at his own vehemence that he sat blinking at his temerity in using such a tone when addressing the King's Champion.

  Garreth ignored the look. "No? Does that mean you want me to stay?"

  "Yes."

  "Fine, then I'll stay a little longer, but what good will that do if you won't talk to me?"

  "I'll talk to you." The words were barely more than a whisper.

  "Then why don't you start by telling me why Cross-Eyed Ivor kicked you." Before the boy could even begin to respond, Garreth held up his hand, palm outward, to silence him. "Wait, I want you to listen to me carefully first, and take note of what I have to say. Will you do that?"

  The boy nodded, mute.

  "Good. Now you are probably thinking that I won't believe what you tell me and thinking, too, that you will be shaming yourself by even talking about it . . . and you might even be thinking that I'll think you are making everything up. Are you? Is that what you're thinking?"

  "N-no."

  "Are you sure about that? You don't sound very sure."

  No, I'm sure." The boy's voice was growing stronger and more confident.

  "Well, I'm very glad to know that, because here is what is really in my mind. You are cut and bleeding, and I can see plainly that someone has been beating you . . . beating you fairly thoroughly. Even before you told me who it was, I knew it must have been someone older and bigger than you are, because I know you are your father's son and your grandfather's pride and joy, and I know you would never stand still and allow anyone to do that to you unless he was much bigger and older than you are. Am I correct?"

  Uther nodded hesitantly, his eyes wide with amazement at hearing praise and encouragement where he had expected scorn.

  "I knew it. And it was only one boy, wasn't it? It was only cross-Eyed Ivor who hit you?" The boy nodded again, but this lime his eyes remained cast down, and Garreth went after the information he suspected would be there. "Am I correct? Or were there others there? Were there others with him?"

  This time the nod of Uther's head was very small.

  "Aha! And did any of the others hit you?"

  "No, only Ivor. But they watched, and laughed."

  "Why? Why were they tormenting you?"

  "They don't like me."

  "Well, I don't know about that. . . For all we know, they might be afraid to show Ivor what they really think of him, in case he turns on them. He's a big strong clod, isn't he?" The boy nodded, and Garreth tilted his head in agreement. "Yes, well, it wouldn't be the first time people have ganged up on someone else, someone smaller than they are, to protect themselves from being tormented by a big strong clod of a bully." Garreth Whistler let that sink home for a few moments and then continued. "Why were they tormenting you, anyway, do you know? Did they tell you?"

  The boy mumbled something.

  "What? I didn't hear what you said."

  Uther cleared his throat and then spoke again, more loudly. "They called me an Outlander."

  "An Outlander? Hah! They must be mad. You're no Outlander, you're the King's own grandson, born and bred right here in Tir Manha. Of course, your mother might be called an Outlander . . . Hey, hold on there! Do you intend to fight me, too? I only said she might be called one . . ."

  The boy had blanched and started to struggle to gain his feet, his full lips pulled into a grimace and white with rage.

  "She is not! My mother is not an Outlander."

  "I know that, lad, I know! Listen to me!" Garreth had gripped the boy by the wrists, imprisoning his hands and restraining them effortlessly. As the man's words penetrated his rage, Uther slumped back and relaxed, and as soon as he did, Garreth released him.

  "That's better. I thought for a moment there that you were going to injure me. Are you going to be quiet now? Am I safe?" He examined Uther's expression closely and then nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw. "Good lad. Now look here, let's be truthful about this, you and me. Your father, Uric Pendragon, is the King's firstborn son, isn't that so? What that means, then, is that had your mother been an Outlander of any kind, then your father, as the King's son, could never have wed her. You know that's true, don't you?" Uther nodded. "Good. We are agreed on that, and therefore we can agree, too, that it doesn't matter what any other fool might have to say on the matter. So now you can settle down and chew on some of these."

  He reached into the leather scrip that hung from his waist and produced a bag of shelled hazelnuts. The boy took it hesitantly, shook out a small portion of nuts into his palm and began to pop them into his mouth one by one. Garreth did the same, crunching the nuts audibly and with relish between strong, white, even teeth as he continued speaking.

  "Now me, I'm a real Outlander, you know, because of my father—my real father, I mean. I was born here, too, but the man who raised me was not my real father. Nobody here ever saw him or knew who he was or where he came from. But with just one look at me, they can tell he was an Outlander from far away." He laughed, disparaging himself, and Uther did not know how he should react. Garreth Whistler looked very different from everyone else, but Uther had never heard anyone mention the fact aloud. Then, incredulous, he heard the big man say, "You and I have many things
to tell each other, Master Pendragon."

  They sat in a more companionable silence for a time until they had eaten all their nuts, and then Garreth ventured a little further.

  "That was it, wasn't it? Ivor was saying things about your mother and you fought him."

  "Yes." The voice was soft again, almost too quiet to be heard.

  "That's what I thought . . ." He reached into his open mouth with his right pinkie and delicately picked a piece of nut from between two teeth. "It's a necessary thing for a man to defend his mother's name and honour. But a clever man ought to stop and think before throwing himself into a fight he can't win. You didn't think about that, did you?"

  "Yes, I did. I didn't want to fight. But they made me. They found me and made me fight."

  "You mean they made you fight by laughing at your mother and saying bad things about her?"

  "Yes"

  "Where were you when they found you?"

  "Hiding."

  "Hiding from them? Why would you do that?"

  "Because . . . because I was afraid. They always beat me." The boy hung his head, peering down at himself, the very picture of shame and dejection.

  Garreth Whistler kept his voice pitched low when he spoke again. "Hmm. I know what you mean. Being alone and surrounded by enemies makes you really afraid. I know the feeling well."

  At the edge of his vision, Garreth saw the boy's head come up and swivel towards him, the eyes wide with disbelief, and he swung his own head to return the look.

  "What? You don't believe me? You think I'm lying, is that what you think? You think that because I'm the King's Champion I've never been afraid?" He sat up straight, bent his knees, reached down with one hand and pushed himself up easily from the ground. Then he reached down again and helped young Uther to his feet.

  "Come on, let's take a walk, you and me. I have to meet someone, but you can come with me. It won't take long, and on the way back we'll get you cleaned up so that the sight of you won't frighten your mother." He paused and squinted down at Uther's bleeding shins. "How are the legs? Can you walk on them, or should I carry you on my back like a baby?" His tone was jocular, teasing, and the boy rewarded him with a shy smile.

  "I can walk."

  "Magnificent!" Garreth Whistler busied himself for a moment adjusting the hang of his sword and collecting his axe and shield, and then he stood upright again, looming over the boy who now stood gazing up at him. "There, that's better! Now, young Uther, let us walk together, the two of us, and share ideas."

  Uther Pendragon thought his heart would burst with pride as he walked solemnly towards the village in the company of his new and unexpected ally. Garreth Whistler was the most highly regarded warrior in King Ullic's entire domain, a naturally gifted fighter of exceptional speed, grace, strength and stamina. His skills were admired by everyone, envied by most and equalled in no one. He was not yet twenty years old, but he had been recognized as a paragon of military prowess since long before his formal coming- of-age four years earlier. He was too young yet to lead armies, people said; he lacked experience in dealing with large numbers of men. But even Uther, who was seven years old, knew that when it came to single-handed feats of arms, Garreth Whistler of the Pendragon had no peer and would bow the knee to no man except his lawful king, Ullic Pendragon.

  Garreth was also beautiful, Uther knew, at least in the eyes of women, for he had heard Henna and her friends in the kitchens discussing the King's Champion in great and lurid detail, praising his hair and his perfectly muscled body. Uther found himself almost walking sideways, peering up at the very tall man who strode beside him. As Garreth himself had observed a short time earlier, he was startlingly different-looking. And he was mysterious because of that, for no one could point a finger towards his origins and say that was where he came from. Henna had said that his mother, whose name was Bronwyn, had been born and raised in Tir Manha, but she had been abducted in a raid just prior to being married to a man called Dunvallo, one of the clan's most prominent warriors. Dunvallo had been severely wounded in the same raid. Many years later, without explanation of any kind, Bronwyn had returned to her homeland, unable to speak because her tongue had been cut out during her captivity. She had been far advanced in pregnancy when she arrived, and Dunvallo, her former husband-to-be, who had never married because of the wounds he had received in the raid that snatched her away, took her into his home without hesitation and looked after her until she gave birth to her son. Bronwyn did not survive the birthing, and she had never been able to communicate the secret of her child's paternity, and so it fell upon Dunvallo to name the babe and care for him during his infancy, in ignorance of whether the child had been the fruit of a loving relationship or a casual, brutal rape. Dunvallo did all that needed to be done for the child whom he named Garreth, and did it very well, until a lethal, lingering fever drained the life from him when the boy was eight years old. Orphaned then for the second time in his short life, Garreth managed to survive on his own.

  Local lore, however, remembered that Garreth had been born a mystery and remained that way. There was no doubt that he was an anomaly among this race of thick-set, dark-skinned, raven-haired mountain dwellers. Garreth's tangle of long blond curls, almost snow-white in colour, and the pale blue eyes that blazed prominently beneath a high forehead and white eyebrows, seemed to heighten and intensify the golden colour of his tanned skin. Where most of his compatriots were long-lipped, flat-faced and snub- nosed, Garreth Whistler's nose was long and straight and narrow, his cheekbones were high and prominent, and his jaw was almost square, sloping down to a strong, deeply cleft chin. Uther's Grandmother Luceiia Britannicus had once told his Grandfather Ullic that Garreth Whistler looked like a Hellene, with his long limbs, golden looks, white hair and Grecian features. Uther asked what a Hellene was, and Ullic told him that it was an Attic Greek. That was the end of that conversation, and although Uther clearly remembered the description, he had not the slightest knowledge of what an Attic Greek was or what it meant.

  And now this golden man Garreth Whistler, the King's Champion, was walking slowly by Uther's side, talking to him as though Uther Pendragon were his equal. He had even slowed his pace unobtrusively so that Uther could keep up with him without having to run or even trot.

  They made one foray into the dense woods together. Garreth bade Uther wait for him, and then went forward to meet a woman whose face Uther could not see and whose voice was too low for him to recognize. As Garreth had promised earlier, the meeting did not take long, and the King's Champion soon returned, shaking his head ruefully.

  "I hope that by the time you grow up, young Uther, and arrive at the knowledge of women, you will have arrived also at an understanding of women. I never did, and I suppose I never will. Women are utterly unfathomable creatures. I thank all the gods, though, that they exist! Now let's head back and clean up your combat wounds, for that's what they are: wounds acquired in defending your mother's honour. But first I have to pee."

  When he had finished, the tall man turned back to his small companion and they resumed walking.

  "You do know that everyone in the world has to pee every day, don't you?"

  "Yes, and cack."

  Exactly. Everyone does . . ." They walked on in silence for a while, then, "Have you ever had to pee really badly and not been able to because you were in a place where you couldn't just untie your flaps and do it?" Uther nodded gravely, ignoring the fact that until his seventh birthday he had gone uncovered much of the time. "Hmm. Where was that, d'you recall?"

  "In the King's Hall, when the Druids were offering sacrifice."

  "That was just last month."

  Another grave nod. "I know."

  "How long did you have to hold it, a long time?" The boy nodded. "That can be very painful, having to hold it in for too long. Did it hurt much, that day?" Another nod. "Aye, I'll wager it did. It always does, you see, and it doesn't get any easier as you grow older. When you are an old man, even older than your Grandfa
ther Ullic, there will still be times when you have to pee really badly and for one reason or another you won't be able to. So you'll hang on to it and hold it in until you think you have to burst, and it really, really hurts . . . Fear is like that, too."

  "What?" The boy stopped dead in his tracks and stood staring up at the tall golden man.

  "I said fear's like that, like having to pee. Everyone in the world has to pee—even women—and sooner or later, everyone in the world has to put up with the pain of not being able to do it when they want to. Same thing with fear, young Uther. Come on, keep walking.

  "Everyone in the world suffers from fear, sometimes every day. And fear hurts; don't you let anyone tell you otherwise. It doesn't stop hurting as you get older, either. It still hurts me as much as it did when I was your age. Sometimes it even gets worse. You just have to learn to deal with it."

  "How?"

  "Ah, how . . . now there's a question difficult to answer. You see that piece of rope there, lying on the ground?"

  They were passing by one of the stables on the outskirts of the village now, and Uther looked to where Garreth pointed.

  "Yes"

  "Then tell me quickly, how long is it?"

  "How—? I don't know."

  "What d'you mean, you don't know? It's a piece of rope, isn't it? You've seen pieces of rope before, haven't you?"

  "Yes." Uther was frowning slightly, wondering what Garreth was talking about.