by Jack Whyte
Balin sat blinking, fingering his beard abstractedly and frowning slightly in perplexity. "Farms? Explain that, please. I don't quite understand. Camulod is a fortress, from what I have heard. No one has ever spoken of the place in terms of farms or farming."
Uther fought to keep his face expressionless, because he was surprised and fascinated by how much he was learning here. Before his discovery of Balin's Cornish identity, he had assumed that this man, as an honoured guest of his father and an ambassador from some distant king or chief, would know everything there was to know about Camulod, Pendragon's closest and strongest ally. It now appeared, however, that the man knew almost nothing, and that made it instantly obvious to the boy that his father had been unresponsive to the questions Balin must have asked him.
Uther's mind was churning, his thoughts chaotic. Why should his father have been so secretive? It must have stemmed from distrust, he decided—if not of Balin himself, then certainly of his master, the Cornish Duke Emrys. Although he had often been glad in the past that he was not expected or permitted to sit in on the frequent and all too often tedious gatherings of his father's Council, Uther now found himself wishing heartily that he knew more about these things. Then, remembering Garreth Whistler's warning that it was most often better to say little and listen closely, he shook his head and smiled, allowing himself to look slightly perplexed.
"Have you never been in that part of the world at all. Lord Balin, the lands around Aquae Sulis to the east of here?"
"Yes, I have, but not for many years, and I never gained any great knowledge of the region. I understand that Camulod itself is not far from there, a matter of a few days' ride . . ." Balin paused for a long time, evidently musing on other things, before continuing. "It is a strange thing, because I have travelled widely over the years in my role as adviser to Chief Emrys, long before he took upon himself the Roman title of dux, or Duke. I began as his factotum, to use the Roman word for it, standing in his place to assist and mediate in his early trading ventures, and my responsibilities in the service of the Duke have gradually increased as time has passed. In each of my several capacities I have seen the entire length of this island—along the coastlines of both Britain and Caledonia, on both sides, east and west—on several occasions, and I have even crossed the western sea to Eire three times.
"Before the Romans left, in the first great exodus when Stilicho recalled the British legions, I wandered over the entire country, looking after the commercial interests of my master—" He broke off suddenly, and his face lit up in a smile. "Strange, is it not, how all things change, even our ways of thinking of ourselves? You are too young now to see the truth of that, but some day you will. I spoke about myself and Emrys. Now he is Duke Emrys, and I refer to him as my lord. Formerly, however, he was Chief Emrys, and before that merely Emrys, an able and gifted trader and a formidable fighter." Balin paused again, staring into his cup, and then resumed, still gazing pensively into his wine.
"Beyond Britain, I am also familiar with most parts of Gaul, and I would have trouble, I suspect, deciding with any accuracy on how many times I have been to that land, both north and south. That is where I formed my taste for fine wines like this one we are drinking now. I have friends and acquaintances and contacts and go-betweens among the Burgundian peoples and the Frankish clans who are settling into those territories where the Burgundians have not yet gone. So it seems strange that, with all that travelling spread over all too many years, I should have missed some areas so close to home. Nevertheless, I suspect that much of life is like that. We seldom see what is closest to our eyes. So, if it please you, tell me about Camulod and how it came to be."
Uther smiled and shrugged and shook his head in self-deprecation. "Well, as you yourself have said, I am not a warrior yet, so there is much I don't know . . . much to which I am not privy. I cannot tell you much about Camulod today, Lord Balin—about its strengths or weaknesses or how it is organized or governed. But I can tell you about how it came to be what it is today. I have been well taught regarding that story."
Balin inclined his head. "Do so, if you would. You mentioned it was founded by two men, relatives of yours."
"Aye, that's right. The story of Camulod began when my grandfather, Publius Varrus, first came to this region to visit my great-uncle, Caius Britannicus, then remained here to marry my grandmother, Luceiia Britannicus. Before that, there was no Camulod. Publius Varrus married my grandmother Luceiia almost fifty years ago, and it was after their marriage that the territories of the place they called the Colony were assembled and drawn together, in preparation to defend themselves after the Romans left Britain.
"They chose the old hill fort we now call Camulod as being the best place from which to organize the defence of all their farms. It was centrally located among their Colony's holdings, and it had served as a defensive fort in ancient times, long before the Romans ever came to Britain. Publius Varrus's only use for it in the beginning was as a rallying point, a base from which to launch his forces, who were all infantry in those days.
"Somewhere around that same time, my other grandfather, Ullic Pendragon, befriended Varrus and Britannicus, and they made alliance between them, Pendragon Cambria and what Caius Britannicus called the Britannic Colony, each to defend the other's back in time of war and peril. The towers of Camulod began to grow then, too, first as wooden palisades and then as walls of stone, and they began to breed and rear horses, because of the speed they offered—the best and fastest means of moving men to defend the Colony's borders.
"Then when the Romans left Britain for good, about the time I was born, my Uncle Picus, who rode with the Roman Regent Stilicho, arranged for his father, my Great-uncle Caius, to take possession of more than six hundred head of prime Roman cavalry stock, and since that time the place has thrived."
"Hmm." Balin sat relaxed, enjoying his young guest and making no attempt to hide his amusement. "So, given that Camulod was founded by your family, will you rule there one day?"
"Gods, no, that's not for me! My cousin Cay will undertake the governing of Camulod, and he will be magnificent at doing it. My rightful place is here in Cambria, among my father's mountains and his warriors. But I am grateful to my friends and kin in Camulod for the gift of horsemanship. Because horses are weapons, the greatest and most powerful weapons this world has ever seen."
"Horses?" Balin's smile had vanished, and it was evident that he was now quite bewildered. "But . . . but horses have been here for as long as men have . . ."
"Of course, Lord Balin. What is new is the use that Camulod makes of horses. Cavalry such as theirs is in—" Uther broke off in mid-word, aware that he had been on the point of saying "invincible," and something, some unexpected prompting, had forbidden him to say the word. He snorted, as though choking back a self- deprecating laugh, aware that Balin was still waiting for him to finish what he had started to say, then shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head slightly, as though in dismissal of his own silliness.
"Anyway," he resumed, "weapon or no, I am grateful that I have a horse of my own and can roam free where and when it pleases me."
"Aye, there's nothing finer than being free and untramelled, but few of us after we reach manhood are able to enjoy that feeling. Had it not been for this drive of yours to go wherever you wish, whenever you wish, I would have lost my wife. She has told me in great detail about all that you did for her, and I am in your debt forever. I will not insult you by offering you gold or jewels, although I have both in plenty and they are yours for the asking, should you so desire, but I feel that my debt to you involves a price far higher than any that can be paid in jewels or specie. I do not know, at this time, how I will repay you, but a means will come to me. Or it might come to you—some form of recompense that you would value greatly but which I might never consider. Bend your mind to that, young man. Think of me as a friend, and do not let yourself be bound by any other considerations in this. Who knows what you might require? And who knows what I migh
t be able to do for you?"
Unable to think of anything to say in response to that, Uther rose to his feet and looked around the room. Normally this chamber, and the others that served with it as guest quarters, sat vacant, but always clean and well aired, ready to be used at a moment's notice. And while it was true that the room generally reflected very little of the people who passed through and used it, there were visitors from time to time who imprinted their personalities and moods visibly upon the room and its furnishings during their stay.
There was a stringed instrument of some kind leaning against a chair by the room's main table, and Uther placed his wine cup down gently and crossed to examine it more closely. Although he knew the instrument was a harp, it was unlike any harp he had seen before—larger and more solid-looking in the main pillar of the frame. Careful not to upset it, for it looked carefully balanced, he stretched out a questing hand to touch the strings and run the pad of one finger up and down one of them, feeling its rough texture.
"Gut," Balin said. "Dried animal gut. Swine, I believe, or perhaps it is sheep gut. It is an Erse harp. I found it last time I was over in Eire and bought it from the man who owned it. The fellow couldn't play it at all. He kept it because it had belonged to his first wife, who had died while yet young enough to be lovable. And you are barely listening to what I am saying. What is it that distracts you?"
Uther looked up and smiled. "I was thinking about how surprised I am that you are not angry. I thought you would be."
"Angry? And why should I be angry?"
"Because of what I told you . . . about Lot."
Balin shook his head and flapped his hand in dismissal of that. "What happened between you and Gulrhys Lot was personal, and it happened long ago. I see no reason in that for me to grow angry thinking about it. . . do you, really?"
"No, Lord Balin, I do not, now that I think about it in that light. It—"
"But I could grow angry, I believe, were I to allow myself to dwell upon the ideas you formed and the conclusions you drew from that long-ago confrontation."
Frowning, Uther started to say something else, but Balin cut him off again, raising one hand swiftly, palm outward. "No, it is true. You emerged from that encounter with Gulrhys Lot fully convinced that everyone from Cornwall is as he is and behaves as he behaves, and you have not changed your thinking on that in—how long ago was it, three years? For three years you have walked around with poisonous nonsense flowing through your mind, and it sprang out of you the moment I mentioned that I am from Cornwall. You looked at me as though I had become a writhing serpent. Do you deny that?"
Uther shrugged his shoulders, feeling his face flush with discomfort. "No, I cannot."
"But why would you even think such a thing? Lot may be as evil and pernicious as you think him to be. But why should I and every other person from Cornwall be so vilely tainted by your memories of that one man?"
"Because my memories of him are vile and bitter."
"I have no doubt of that, Uther Pendragon, and you are not alone in feeling as you do. My loyalty is to his father, the Duke Emrys, and there it ends. I bear no allegiance at all, of any kind, to Gulrhys Lot, and I swear there have been times when I would have happily wagered that Emrys himself cannot stomach the boy he fathered . . ." He paused, gazing at the boy who stood watching him, his face troubled. "I think I am going to have to teach you a little about Cornwall, Master Uther. Sit down now and drink your wine while I tell you about my nephew, who is older than you— three years older, in fact, since he is of an age with Gulrhys Lot. His given name is Lagan, and Mairidh tells me that in recent months he has won the name Longhead, by virtue of his intellect and his far-sightedness. By some strange coincidence that I have never quite understood, he and I ended up married to sisters. His wife, Lydda, a beautiful young creature no more than a year or so older than you are, is Mairidh's youngest sister, so Lagan is not only my nephew by blood, the son of my elder brother, but he is also a relative of some other kind by marriage."
In the course of the half hour that followed, Uther learned much about the young man known as Lagan Longhead, and in listening learned much, too, about the customs and rituals that governed the passing of boys into manhood in Cornwall.
On the other side of the wall, Mairidh smiled and closed her eyes, listening with pleasure as her husband spoke of home and family.
Chapter TEN
Nemo saw Uther as her personal champion, and so she was unsurprised when, in the time of her greatest need, he appeared. She would have expected nothing less.
It happened early in the autumn of the year she passed seventeen, when she walked blithely into peril in a way that her younger self would never have permitted. Three men, travellers passing through Tir Manha, had noticed her shortly after the midday meal when she walked by them heedlessly, daydreaming of Uther, who was due to return home from Camulod that day or the next. Nemo had long since learned to keep herself clean, acutely aware that Uther set great store by cleanliness, thanks to his long Roman- influenced periods in Camulod, but she had never come to realize that her cleanliness now gave her a distinctive scent that could be alluring and arousing to rough men passing by in a condition of enforced abstinence. Watching her, the three paid no attention to her heavy facial features or the rough texture of her hair. Instead, they smelled sexual challenge in the clean, alluring scent of her and saw it in the firm young strength of her limbs and buttocks and in the thrust of her seventeen-year-old breasts.
Having noticed her, they followed, watching her closely, wailing for a suitable time and place. Then, when circumstances seemed right, they attacked her like wolves, leaping from behind and bundling her into the long grass by the roadside, pulling her quickly and quietly down out of sight into concealment among rank growth and thick shrubs.
It was not the first time Nemo had been waylaid by sexual predators, however, and her ferocious, silent and deadly response took her three attackers unawares. Extremely strong and implacably savage by nature. Nemo was a burly badger of an opponent, and she fought them as any wild thing fights confinement, single-mindedly seeking to save her own life and to inflict maximum damage on her tormentors in the process. Hunched over and battling grimly, making the most of her solid bulk and her low centre of gravity, she refused to yield or submit in any degree, so that even outnumbering her, her opponents had great difficulty in subduing her. So great was their difficulty, in fact, and so total their concentration upon immobilizing and holding her down for their gratification that all of them failed to notice the approach of the fast-moving horseman who came charging down at them from the hillside above.
Nemo was on her back, fighting for her life, hemmed in and confined, it seemed to her, by an entire forest of men's legs. She kicked and chopped and gouged fiercely, catching one man in the groin with a hard-swung but glancing blow and dropping him to his knees. One of his two companions who had stepped back from the fray, pulling at his breeches to free himself in preparation for claiming the first fruits of her, saw the man drop and looked towards him, grunting and starting to laugh barely a moment before Nemo lunged at him and snatched at his rigid phallus with rending, long-nailed fingers. His laughter turned to a scream as those fingernails dug deep, drawing blood, and Nemo's thick, muscular fist closed around his hardness, wrenching violently, twisting downward and inward hard, pulling him towards her as her other fist smashed brutally upward into his exposed and unprotected scrotum. His knees, too, gave way, and he collapsed on top of her, barely conscious, just as young Uther Pendragon, screaming a war cry of some kind, threw himself from his horse's back directly into the middle of the struggling knot of bodies.
He landed on the shoulders of the only one of the trio who had been able to grasp a firm hold of Nemo. With his arms around her waist from behind and his crashing weight, Uther took the hunched figure of the man and the woman beneath him face downward into the grassy bottom of the ditch. Then, before anyone else had a chance to react or move, the long, single-edged
dirk in Uther's hand rose up and plunged down again to bury itself between the fellow's shoulders. The stabbed man reared up violently, almost throwing Uther completely off his back, and then he stiffened and gave out a wet, gurgling sound before falling forward, dead, covering Nemo completely so that she had to fight to crawl out from beneath the weight of him.
Before the corpse had even toppled, however, Uther was moving, ripping his dagger free and stabbing out hard again, sideways this time and to his right, at the man Nemo had savaged. This fellow was hunched over in agony, his spindly, bare thighs ludicrously pale and hairless above the trousers that were pushed down about his knees, and his entire attention was concentrated upon finding respite from the excruciating pain of his damaged testicles. He had not seen his companion die, and he did not see the blow that took his own life. The point of Uther's blade penetrated the unprotected base of his throat and then sliced down and across as Uther slashed deep.
The remaining attacker, the one whom Nemo had kicked first, had seen all of this, and now he leaped to his feet and began to run. He had barely taken two strides, however, when he found his way blocked by another horseman, and before he could even think to dodge, the rider's armoured boot, lodged in its heavy, wooden stirrup, rose up and smashed down again, hitting him full in the face and sending him reeling and falling backwards to where young Uther Pendragon was already lurching forward, bloodied dirk raised high.
"Uther, no!"
The call from the armoured rider came too late. Uther's arm was already encircling the other man's neck, and the long-bladed dirk was digging deep, probing upwards between the ribs for his heart. Uther Pendragon, grim-faced, held the dying man close against his chest, straining against the convulsions of the body until they ceased, and then he released his grip and allowed the man to fall, retaining his tight grasp on the dagger's hilt so that the dead weight of the corpse pulled it free of the blade. When the body lay at his feet, he stood gazing down at it for long moments. Then he bent slowly and pulled the head covering, a length of plain brown cloth, from the corpse.