Uther cc-7

by Jack Whyte

  From that perspective, Uther was grossly at fault, both culpable and vulnerable, and his greatest fear had been that Mairidh might betray him inadvertently, thereby exposing him to the King's anger, which was legendary in both its rarity and its ferocity. Now, seeing the King's demeanour, the boy knew immediately that his secret had been kept safe. He moved to meet his father, extending his hand while carefully keeping his face empty of expression, but Uric came straight to him and threw his arms about his son's shoulders, hugging him tightly, saying nothing. Then, after a short time, he spoke over Uther's shoulder, as though he were addressing the wall behind them.

  "There was a time there, you know, when you first arrived this morning, when I had the thought—but only for a moment—that you might have failed me and done something . . . regrettable . . ." He let that hover in the air briefly. "Then I recalled who you were and what you are, and my own reason told me I was being stupid and unworthily suspicious. And yet, you had been gone, and the Lady Mairidh had been gone, and so the thought occurred to me—and to more than just me, I'll wager—that it might. . . that you might have been together, man and woman, I mean, on an assignation."

  Uther tried not to stiffen in his father's grasp, but the King had not finished saying what he wished to say.

  "As soon as the Lady Mairidh began to speak, of course, she gave the lie to that," he went on. "Then again, I thought, beautiful women have been known to lie with great fluency when putting horns upon their husbands." He stepped back then and grasped his son by the shoulders, looking him straight in the eye. "And now we have all heard it, and I am proud of you, my son. You have done well. But I would like to hear your version of the tale. I'll wager it will be more bloody than the Lady Mairidh's."

  Uther shook his head and tried to smile, hoping that his father might think the flush that stained his face was caused by modesty and not by shame at having to pretend heroic nobility when all he had achieved was deceit. He tried to demur and avoid the telling, but his father would have none of it, and so the tale was told again, mindful of Mairidh's changes to the start of it, but faithful thereafter to chronology and details, ending with the killing of the two raiders, the escape from their encampment and the decision to leave the horse and make their way on foot back to where they had set out.

  The King nodded slowly, visualizing the situation and agreeing with the logic of his son's choices. "Good. Good for you, lad. You've a sensible head on your shoulders. And that reminds me, the lady's husband, Balin, wishes to receive you as soon as you may go to him. He is extremely grateful, and I believe you will find him more than generous in rewarding you for saving his wife's life." The King smiled again, this time at the new flush that swept over his son's face. "Come, now," he said. "You have earned the praise and the rewards, now accept them as your right. But if the thought appalls your modesty, you should go and get it over with now, as soon as you can."

  On the point of dismissing that suggestion out of hand, Uther bethought himself and stood silent for several moments longer, musing on the pros and contras of an immediate meeting with the man with whose wife he had lain with so recently. Postponed, the meeting would grow no easier, he knew. Better perhaps to get it over and done with quickly, before the aggrieved husband would have time to dwell upon what might have taken place while his wife was absent—before she had been covered with her rescuer's tunic . . . Besides, Uther knew that his father would soon come to wonder why his son should be so reluctant to meet with a man who must be deeply in his debt. The King of the Pendragon was no man's fool and had not achieved his high station because he was short-sighted or stupid. Finally he nodded his head.

  "You are right, Father. Best get it over with, although I did nothing heroic, so I would rather not be thanked. There is nothing commendable about sneaking up on two sleeping men and braining them in the darkness. All I had to do afterwards was cut the woman loose and bring her home . . . So I suppose I'll go and meet her husband now. Will you come with me?"

  His father smiled and shook his head. "No, Uther, and if you think about it, you'll see why: the man will wish to show his gratitude and obligation to you. I am the King, and I'm your father. That alone obliges him to show impressive gratitude. My presence would place an intolerable burden upon him, adding to that obligation. I cannot do that to him."

  Uther nodded, then looked about him, sucking in a great breath. "Well, I ought to go and see him now, d'you think?"

  "Yes. He'll be waiting for you."

  "Very well, then . . . I'll go . . ."

  Thinking back on it years later, Uther would remark to his friend Huw Strongarm that he came very close to leaving his father's stronghold that afternoon and fleeing to Camulod to avoid the confrontation that his guilty conscience had assured him must take place between him and his father's honoured guest. It was only the awareness that in so doing he would be acknowledging a guilt of which no one had yet accused him that kept him from going. And had he left that day, he mused to Huw, then the entire development and course of the wars with Cornwall and its self-styled King, Gulrhys Lot, might have turned out very differently.

  As it was, he approached the quarters that housed Balin and his wife with great reluctance and trepidation, and when he saw a smiling Mairidh waiting in the doorway to greet him, his guilt and fear grew to confusion and near-panic. Nothing in Uther's experience had prepared him for the sight of a carefree, smiling Mairidh, and although he knew with one part of his mind that he should be glad, he was not yet mentally spry enough, or perhaps not yet cynical enough, to adapt instantly to the unexpected sight of her unworried smile.

  Unaware of his confusion, Mairidh grasped him gently by the wrist and turned away, pulling him with her as she moved directly to the closed door at her back, and Uther, his heart hammering in his chest, the softness of her hand burning the skin where she touched him, thought for one mad moment that she was abducting him somehow, pulling him into a private room to make love to him beneath her husband's very nose. In a complete panic, he began to pull back, tugging against her, but she had already knocked on the door and turned to face him, still smiling widely.

  "Balin?" she called. "My rescuer is here. Shall I send him in?"

  The door opened almost before she had finished saying the words, and Balin, a tall, elderly man with long, silver hair, stepped forward into the light of the doorway and inclined his upper torso in something approaching a bow, a courteous gesture conveying respect that included both Mairidh and Uther. "No need for that, my love," he said in a deep, quiet voice. "I am here to welcome our benefactor myself."

  He extended a hand, waving it gently to usher Uther into his sanctum. "If it pleases you, Uther Pendragon, come into my world. You have already entered into it, and into my life, with your rescue of my beloved consort, so now it will please me greatly if you will accept my gratitude and my freely granted access to the remainder, which is but little when compared to all I might have lost. Come in, come in, and sit with me, talk with me."

  Disarmed, flattered and thrown decidedly off balance by the charming manner and the unmistakable sincerity of the man who greeted him so amiably, Uther allowed himself to be ushered forward into Balin's chamber, and presently he found himself seated in front of a glowing brazier, holding a cup which his host was busy filling with yellow sparkling wine.

  Mairidh had vanished silently into another part of the square- built house, which, though small in area, was rich in its amenities as befitted the dwelling reserved for the King's most important guests, and so bemused was Uther by the attention lavished upon him by her husband that he had not even been aware that she had not followed him into the room. What he could not have known, however, was that she now sat close by, on the other side of the wall closest to him and within two paces of where he sat facing her husband. There, secure in her own privacy, she sat in comfort in a thickly padded armchair, sipping a cup of the same wine the men were drinking and listening to the voices that came directly to her over the top of the wa
ll-like partition that divided the large room into two equal halves. She heard every word of the conversation taking place in Balin's room as clearly as though she were sitting there herself.

  Rapt now, Uther sat watching as the bubbling liquid reached the rim of his cup, and his host pulled the ewer away without allowing a single drop to spill. Balin's face was tense with delight as he peered at Uther, waiting for him to taste the wine, but Uther made no move to do so. He had tasted wine before, but never yellow wine, just vinum, the rank, sour red wine mixed with water of the Camulodian cavalry troopers. In his father's mountainous country of south Cambria, wine was seldom drunk, simply because it was seldom, if ever, available.

  "Drink, taste the nectar of the gods." Balin filled his own cup and hoisted it to his lips, holding the ewer high in his other hand as he drank. Watching him, Uther drank too, but cautiously, sipping carefully and apprehensive of what he would find in his mouth, mindful of the gut-wrenching sourness that had almost sickened him on first tasting vinum. Instead of bitterness, however, he found his mouth filled with liquid sunshine, with a delicious, almost syrupy-sweet explosion of rich flavours that set his entire mouth tingling and his mind reeling as he sought to identify the tastes that blended and melded together on his tongue.

  "Is it not wonderful? Have you ever tasted it’s like?"

  Uther could only shake his head in wonder as he took another mouthful.

  "It is from the very central regions of the lands of the wild Germanic tribes the Romans could never conquer, and the grapes from which it is made are grown on the slopes along the shores of the vast river they called the Rhenus, which marked the northeastern borders of Rome's Empire. This nectar that we drink is the greatest contradiction in the world, for the people who perfected the making of it are so savage, so ferocious, that they stopped Rome's legions and defied them entry to the farthest regions of their lands—the only people in all the world who ever did so, save only for the northernmost Caledonians, whose land is so unwholesome and infertile that the Romans felt no desire for it. And yet, in all their fury, these untamable Germanic tribes have the ability to make this magnificent wine. The grapes they grow on their hillside terraces are pale green, I am told, and very sweet, rich in sugars and perfect for the making of this nectar, which is found nowhere else." He stopped speaking and sipped delicately at the liquid in his cup, rolling it on his tongue and savouring it lingeringly before taking a second taste.

  "It is difficult to come by this, as you might imagine, now that there is little commerce between Britain and Gaul. I have a . . . a supplier, however, whose connections extend far and wide and who relies upon the truth that people everywhere have need of his trading skills. The last time I saw him, thanks be to all the gods, when I revisited my home in Cornwall, he had a good amount, but even he cannot guarantee a constant supply—" Balin stopped short, startled by the way Uther had suddenly scowled and sat up straight and stiff-backed. "What is wrong? Do you not like the wine?"

  Uther's scowl deepened. "I did not know you are from Cornwall."

  Balin held his head slightly higher, his face reflecting surprise and amusement. "Of course I am from Cornwall! Where did you think I hailed from, and why should it seem so unpleasant to you?"

  Uther realized belatedly that his reaction had been truculent and ill-mannered. "I . . . I knew only that you were here on some kind of diplomatic business with my father. I assumed you were from . . . it shames me that I was not interested enough to find out."

  Balin now offered a small half-smile. "No need for shame, but you do sound disappointed."

  "I am, sir. Disappointed at myself. I am the King's son, after all."

  Balin inclined his head in a gesture that signified both agreement and respect. "It is true you are the King's son, but you are not yet a warrior in the formal sense. You face the Manhood Rites within the month, is that not so?"

  "Yes, that is true."

  "Well, then, since you are legally a boy and not yet a warrior with a warrior's responsibilities and duties, why should you feel shame over not having identified my origins? Even had you been curious about me, your curiosity would have gone unsatisfied. Forgive my mentioning it, but you are yet too young to participate in men's affairs."

  "But not too young to ask questions. Not being a warrior is no excuse for being unready, Lord Balin. Had I been unready a few days ago, your wife might not be here now."

  Balin inclined his head in acknowledgment of that truth. "But why would you even think to ask where I was from? You make it sound highly important that you should know such a thing."

  Uther stood up and placed his cup carefully on a small table near his chair. "It is, sir, when the answer to the question is Cornwall. Now I must leave you. Thank you for the wine."

  "Great Dagda!" Balin subsided into a chair as quickly as Uther had sprung to his feet, but he was smiling in disbelief. "You intend to leave me, just like that, for being from Cornwall? Are we then mortal enemies, and have you found yourself in here with me by misadventure? Do you fear, then—tell me quickly— for your life?"

  Uther felt a flush steal over his face. "Well . . . no."

  "Aha! Then sit, if it please you, and finish your wine, and while you are doing so, inform me, if you will, why it should surprise you so unpleasantly to discover where I make my home. Have you enemies in Cornwall?"

  "Yes, I have. A mortal enemy." Uther sat down again, but made no move to pick up the wine cup.

  Balin, whose question had been facetious, now sat staring blankly at him for a space of moments before he spoke again. When he did, the entire tone of his voice was different, cautious and faintly speculative.

  "Your father made no mention of this."

  "My father knows nothing about it."

  "But how can that be? You have a mortal enemy, but unknown to your father? Not that I doubt you, of course, but it seems . . . strange. You have never visited Cornwall, have you? So whence comes this enmity? Is it recent"

  "No, it began three years ago."

  "Three years ago? Then you were but a boy indeed, a child! What happened, and with whom were you at odds?"

  "Do you know Duke Emrys?"

  "Of course I know Duke Emrys. He is my lord."

  "And his son, Gulrhys Lot?"

  "Lot? Great gods! Were you the one, then, the boy who attacked Lot in Camulod and almost killed him?"

  Uther shrugged. "I suppose I was. But he attacked me, too . . . Look, see where he chopped me." He extended his right leg and pulled up the hem of his tunic to expose a long, deep scar on the outside of his thigh, a hand's breadth above the knee.

  "Indeed! That is a man's wound, a battle wound. But you were mere children, boys."

  "No, Lord Balin, I was twelve years old, and Gulrhys Lot was as old as I am now, and he insulted my mother beyond credence or bearing. Had my uncle, Picus Britannicus, not stopped us, Gulrhys Lot would not be alive today. I would have killed him."

  Balin sat silent for a spell digesting that, then nodded, his face blank. "I see this struck far deeper and was of greater moment than I was given to believe. You say Lot insulted your mother . . . sufficiently to provoke you to the point of killing? I find it hard to believe that Duke Emrys would have permitted such gross behaviour from his son."

  Uther merely blinked, his own face betraying nothing of his thoughts. "Duke Emrys was not there at the time. There were but the three of us—Lot, my cousin Cay and me. The Duke knew nothing of what happened until it was all over. And Uncle Picus found us only by accident. He was passing by and heard the sound of our swords."

  "May I ask what you were doing in Camulod? I have never been there, and I am curious about the place. Some of the tales I hear of it seem too wondrous to be true. This uncle of yours is an important man there, is he not?"

  Uther hesitated, then picked up his wine again and sipped at it. It was clear that the anger he had expected to inspire with his revelation about Gulrhys Lot would not be forthcoming. Either this Balin was indeed a
more skilful diplomat than he betrayed, or he was genuinely uncaring of what might have befallen his lord's son. Uther rolled the delicious wine around on his tongue and then look a larger gulp, filling his mouth and holding the beverage captive, feeling the tiny prickles of the sparkling bubbles. Then finally he swallowed, conscious that his father would be displeased to see him drinking unwatered wine of any kind and would be even less pleased by the overt pleasure he was showing in the drinking of it. He replaced the cup carefully on the small table, then smiled at Balin, who sat watching him.

  "My uncle, Picus Britannicus, is Legate and Supreme Commander of the Forces of Camulod."

  "A very grand title."

  Uther nodded soberly. "Aye, sir, and a powerful one. He assumed command from my grandfather, Gaius Publius Varrus, who had inherited the title from his friend and brother by marriage, Caius Cornelius Britannicus, who was Uncle Picus's father. Great-uncle Caius and Grandfather Varrus were the founders of Camulod, which was originally a collection of large and prosperous farms."