by Jack Whyte
Meradoc would be a less than perfect King, Daris was sure. Outwardly he was upright and straightforward, if somewhat too loud and aggressive, and no one could deny his prowess as both warrior and strategist in war. In peace, he applied himself judiciously to being amiable and wholesome, despite the difficulties caused for him by his own disposition. He was not an easy man to like, lacking both in humour and in patience for the weaknesses of other, lesser men. And it quickly became evident to anyone who looked that Meradoc perceived all men as lesser men, despite the pains he took attempting to hide and disguise that fact. He had wealth of many kinds, and he showed no scruples over using it blatantly to buy the good opinion of his men. He failed, however, save in the most lurid ways, to purchase the opinions of their women. Women did not like Meradoc; they distrusted him instinctively. Daris did not know why with any certitude, since women, in the main, would not confide in him, a Druid, but the knowledge added to his misgivings about the Llewellyn Chief.
One more thing bothered Daris greatly. Meradoc kept a small crew of men about him who dwelt in fear-shrouded shadows, part of, yet apart from, his household forces. These men, newcomers all, were seldom seen, yet they were dreaded by the people. Informally known as the Chief's bodyguard, they were forbidding, solitary men who kept themselves apart from all contact, save when they accompanied their Chief on his travels. But they were rumoured to deal out sudden and secretive death to any, it was said, who failed to please their leader or sought to obstruct his designs. Daris had seen them and spoken briefly to a few of them—a series of wordless grunts on their part in response to his words. He disliked them and what they represented in their sullen surliness, but he did not know how much of what was said of them was true, and lacking proof of any crimes, he could not but ignore the hearsay in his assessment of Meradoc as a potential King.
Nevertheless, Daris was convinced that Meradoc was filled with wrongness. The Chief Druid had no other word to apply to what he perceived in the Llewellyn Chief. And yet, despite all that, he knew that Meradoc, as King, would rule his people, and he would do so here in Cambria, and that was more than could be said for the Pendragon. Uther, Daris felt, had been too long absent—in his person and in his heart.
Thinking about that now as he walked towards the others, Daris found himself almost glad that Uther had not come. For if Uther were somehow to emerge as the Chosen King, then, Daris believed, the destruction of the Federation would begin. Uther, despite any protestations he might make at the Choosing, would surely find himself drawn back to the comforts of Camulod and the life it offered. Then Cambria would be without a King, although its King remained alive, and there would be a jealous, angry and ambitious rival left at home to stir up anarchy and civil war.
"That is the fifth time I've seen Meradoc smile since we arrived here, and it's been what, an hour? Less than that."
Daris turned to smile at his old friend Cativelaunus of Carmarthen, amused as always by the elder man's acerbity. "He does seem to be trying very hard to be pleasant."
"Aye, but five smiles in an hour from that one tells me we all ought to be looking about us. Something's in the wind, and if it pleases him, I know I'll retch when I snout it . . . So, there's been no word of Uther?"
"Not a sound. Nothing at all. I think I'm relieved, too—at least, part of me is."
The old Chief looked at the High Priest sideways, one white, bushy eyebrow raised high in scorn. "What part of you is that? Can't be your reason—it's plain that's gone. You're glad the Pendragon's not here? When did this madness take you?"
"Shush!" Daris glanced towards the others, thinking some of them might have overheard what Cativelaunus said. They were all watching Meradoc, however, seeming to hang on his words, and the hectic flush on the Llewellyn Chief's wide-cheeked face showed that he was enjoying being the centre of attention. Cativelaunus blinked with surprise at being told to shush and started to draw himself up defiantly, but then he hesitated and nodded, dropping his voice and slouching his shoulders.
"What, too loud? Well, I'll tell you, my old friend, if this one comes to be the King, we'll all be whispering from that moment forth. Step outside with me. I need clean air."
As Cativelaunus spoke, Brynn of Y Gaer, the other Griffyd Chief and second only to his friend in age, walked up and spoke almost into his ear. "Clean air?" he said mildly. "I'll come, too."
"No, that you'll not," Cativelaunus said, without even turning to look at him. "You'll stay here and keep their thoughts away from what we're up to. If all three of us walk out, we'll be followed. If you stay here without me and make yourself seen and heard, they might not even notice I'm not here. Talk to them about the Choosing and find out how they all stand, as if we didn't know. I need to speak with Daris."
Brynn pursed his lips, ducked his head in a gesture that clearly said, "Very well, I'll try," and sauntered away again, headed directly to the group surrounding Meradoc, where he shouldered his way gently into the press. Someone spoke to him, asking him a question, and as he began to respond Cativelaunus caught Daris's eye and nodded his head slightly towards the open half-door of the stonewalled hut. The two moved slowly out the door into bright sunshine and walked away until a good twenty paces lay between them and the doorway.
The stone hut they had just left was the only permanent building in the smaller encampment known as the Chiefs' Camp, and it had been built in the distant past for private meetings of assembled Chiefs. Its doors were never guarded, for there was no need. For generations past, the hut had been the Chiefs' precinct alone, and no others ever approached it without being summoned.
There were people moving about in the bright afternoon, but none of them paid any attention to the Druid and his white-headed companion. Cativelaunus stopped and looked about him.
"This is far enough. I don't care if they see us speaking, so be that they can't hear us. High Priest and Chief, we two can talk all we want, but if Brynn joined us, those idiots would smell a plot. . . Tell me, then, what are we to do tomorrow noon without Uther? Withhold our votes? Meradoc would take that ill. Might as well stick out our necks for sacrifice. Or should we simply vote for him and accept that, at the end, our lives and our beliefs and all the things we've ever stood for or represented have been worth nothing and we have chosen a bad King through fear alone?"
Daris frowned as he listened. He had known that Cativelaunus had no great love for Meradoc, but this was more than he had expected. The old man's eyes were hard and grim, and his questions were delivered as a verdict rather than a query. Daris shook his head, searching for words.
"I don't think it will be that bad, old friend. He'll not be perfect, I'll grant you, but what King ever is? I've thought long and hard on this, and have decided—unwillingly—that he's the lesser of the two evils—"
"Lesser of the two—? Daris, you are mad! How could you even begin to believe that? Pendragon is—"
"Pendragon is absent, 'Launus. And that is by his own choice. Uther wants no part of being King. That is obvious. Had he felt otherwise, he would be here today."
"He's been delayed! Something has kept him back."
"No, I will not accept that! His father has been dead these past weeks, 'Launus. The summons went out to you and all the others a fortnight past. And it is four days, at most, from Camulod to here. Uther Pendragon is not here because he does not want to be here."
"Then why has our messenger not come back to tell us that? Knowing what must happen now, he would be bound to let us know as soon as he knew."
Daris shrugged. "The only thing I know is that Uther Pendragon has not come, and now he is too late."
"He's not too late. The Choosing won't begin until tomorrow noon. He could be here come morning."
"Aye, and what would he achieve? Which of the Chiefs would choose him now?"
"I would!"
"I know that. You would vote for him, and so would Brynn. What then?"
"Young Huw Strongarm would vote for him. He's Pendragon."
&nb
sp; "Aye, that he is, and his vote, with Uther's, would give you four of seven, beyond doubt or dispute . . . but I doubt now that Huw would vote for Uther. My gut tells me he might not."
Cativelaunus was outraged and made no attempt to hide it. A man of ancient honour and tradition, he found it inconceivable that blood would not speak out for blood. In words that dripped scorn, he poured abuse on his High Priest for daring to suggest that young Huw Pendragon might be seduced away from the strict path of honour.
Daris stood listening until the old Chief ran out of words, and then he nodded. "Tell me," he asked mildly, "what is the sworn duty of each Chief on the day of the Choosing?"
"To pick the best man present to fill the King's seat." The answer was immediate, without the slightest hesitation.
"And how do you—you personally, I mean—decide whom to vote for?"
Cativelaunus hesitated now, scowling. "I . . . I judge each candidate, and then I pick the one I've decided is best."
"The very best, or the best present ?"
"Damn you, Daris, you know as well as I do. The very best might be a thousand times better than the next in line, but if he's not there for the Choosing, then he might as well be dead. The Chiefs assembled are constrained to choose the best man there. That's why I'm so angry at Uther."
"Forget Uther, for the moment, 'Launus. Think about young Huw Strongarm. His duty is the same as yours: to judge the man he believes best suited for the kingship from among those present. Family loyalty can play no role in the Choosing. It never has before; it should not now. Huw, just like you, must make a choice and vote on it according to the prompting of his honour. I believe he has done so and that his choice has fallen upon Meradoc. Huw is young and headstrong and impressionable, but he's no fool. He sees strength in Meradoc. And I believe he sees weakness in Uther."
"How can you say that?"
Daris shrugged. "I have heard Huw speak on this matter, and he professed grave doubts about Uther's suitability as a King."
"Pshaw! And what about Meradoc's lacks? The gods all know there are enough of those."
"The criteria Huw was applying to his measurement of Uther were ably answered in Meradoc. Huw was concerned mainly about Uther's constant absences and about his lack of responsibility for his own duties even now. He wondered how such things would affect Uther if he were King."
"Hah! That's just Huw's youth—that and the lack of having Uther here. There is no weakness in Uther Pendragon. He is his father's son and Ullic's grandson."
"And he stays far away from their kingdom! Huw Strongarm, Pendragon though he is, can see that fault in Uther, and I believe he has decided against Uther because of it. I admire him for that. It is you who really surprise me. Do you really believe Uther would be a better King than Meradoc?" Daris could see from the old man's fierce eyes that he was not going to deign to answer, so he pressed on.
"Understand me clearly, 'Launus, for I am not disputing that Uther might be the better man, but this concerns kingship and the welfare of this land and its people. And so I ask you whether—despite the man's long record of ignoring everything that happens here, and despite his full-time residence in this Roman place called Camulod— whether you would really vote for him over Meradoc, who, despite his faults, is always here, doing his duty as he sees it?"
"Aye, I would, without a moment's thought."
"That is what I fear most. . . your lack of thought." Seeing that he had offended his old friend, Daris quickly held up his hand. "Forgive me, 'Launus. I know you've thought about this long and hard but—" He broke off in mid-thought, then resumed without changing expression. "We're being watched by one of Meradoc's bodyguard."
"Let him look, then." Cativelaunus made no move to turn his head. "Where is he?"
"In the doorway behind us. He's doing nothing, just watching us . . . Now he's coming over."
Cativelaunus turned then to watch the man approach, but neither he nor Daris made any move to welcome or rebuff the newcomer. He was an unprepossessing character, tall and dark- haired, with a clean-shaven, scowling face and a small, lipless slash of a mouth framed between deep-lined, sunken cheeks. A short cloak was looped over his shoulders and beneath that he wore a cuirass of unpolished leather, bossed with iron studs. Heavy boots covered his legs to just below the knees, and beneath his tunic his thighs were covered by some kind of knitted leggings. A wide, thick sword-belt girdled his waist, supporting a heavy-looking short-sword with a riveted, wire-bound wooden grip and a long, one-edged stabbing dirk.
The man came to a halt a good two paces in front of them and then stood for several moments looking at the old Chief and ignoring the Druid completely. Finally he nodded slowly in an acknowledgment of Cativelaunus that was an insult in itself, and raised one hand to his waist, hooking his thumb around the hilt of his sword.
"Meradoc wants you to join him."
Daris drew in his breath to speak, but Cativelaunus waved him to silence. "Does he now?" he answered, his voice quiet and calm. "And who are you to call a Chief of Griffyd to your master?"
The other glared at him, clearly disconcerted, but said nothing. Cativelaunus spoke again.
"I asked you who you are. You have a name, I'd wager on that. When I know what it is, I might speak with you. Until then, I'll speak to you when I wish, and you will not speak to me until I ask you to. Come, Daris."
He turned to look at the High Priest, and the stranger spoke, his face flushed with anger.
"Petifax. Men call me Petifax."
Cativelaunus turned back and looked him up and down from head to foot, and then he nodded very gently. "Petifax. Good. Well, Petifax, tell Meradoc we'll be along when I've finished talking with the Chief Druid."
"He wants you now."
Cativelaunus ignored the man and turned to walk away, stretching his arm out to take hold of Daris's arm, but the stranger's hand was faster. He swooped forward and gripped the Chief by the wrist.
"I said now, old man!"
For half a heartbeat, Daris could not absorb what was happening. He saw Petifax's right hand, his sword hand, fasten on the Chief's left wrist, jerking it downward and back towards him. And then Cativelaunus was moving far more quickly than Daris could credit, spinning quickly inward, towards Daris and then past him. He heard a lightning-quick metallic slither as the old man's Roman short-sword hissed from its sheath, and then came the sound of an impact and the grating sound of a wide blade sinking deep into flesh. Cativelaunus took a long step backward, tugging his left wrist free of the other man's suddenly impotent grasp, and then he braced himself and leaned forward again, twisted his wrist hard and jerked his blade back sharply, with the confident strength of a man three decades younger.
Horror-stricken, Daris swung around to see Meradoc's man stagger forward, pulled by the sword blade, and then stop, hunched over and teetering for balance, his eyes gazing incredulously at the blood that was pulsing, spewing from the hole beneath his breastbone. The sword had passed clean through the leather of his breastplate, and the turn of the old Chief's wrist had spread the edges of the leather, letting the blood escape. Slowly, the man cupped his hands together in front of his breast, as though he were trying to catch or staunch the flow, and he raised his eyes, wide-staring, to look at Cativelaunus. His lips moved and his mouth worked, but no sound emerged. Cativelaunus stood watching him, balanced on the balls of his feet, his sword arm cocked as though for another blow.
"Aye, fool," he growled in a voice that seemed to lack all anger, "you're finished. He sent you out to fetch the old man, didn't he? And you, like all your witless kind, thought you could have some sport with someone who could not fight back. I am a Chief of clan Griffyd, you mindless animal. That means I am not as old and done as other old men are."
The dying man's eyes filled up with hate, and he fell to his knees, but even in the falling he gathered his spittle, blood-flecked on his lips, to spit his defiance. Cativelaunus struck first, however. The flat of his blade clanged solidly above the knee
ling man's ear and Petifax toppled slowly sideways to sprawl in the dirt with the ungainliness that always distinguishes a corpse from a living man. The old Chief bent over and wiped his blade on the other's short cloak.
"Petifax. What kind of name is that? The place is full of heathens and Outlanders nowadays. You'd think someone would warn them of the penalties for laying hands upon a Chief, wouldn't you?" He looked up at Daris. "Are you going to puke?"
Daris swallowed hard and shook his head, gathering his wits. "No, no, I'm not. You know me better than that. It was . . . It just happened very suddenly. I had not expected it."
He looked around, feeling his heart hammering and expecting an uproar. There were people watching, standing motionless all around them, their attention attracted by the short, sharp scuffle, but no one made any move to interfere or to question what had happened. The fallen man was a stranger to all of them, and as such, he held no great interest.
"Why should you have expected it ? You're a priest. You don't deal in such things—not at first-hand, anyway. But you see what I meant earlier by what I was saying."
Daris frowned, looking back to the dead man. "I don't follow you."
"This filth." Cativelaunus spurned the corpse with his boot. "He was no kin of ours, and there's too many of his kind about our would- be King. This is what we can all expect if Meradoc is chosen. 'Come here, now! Do this! Do that! Be here when I command! Come kiss my Kingly arse!'There'll be no life for any of us here, Daris, and little peace in years to come if he is chosen, because I, for one, won't suffer him or any man to dictate my comings and goings. And neither will any of the others. Cunbelyn and Hod might think now that they'll love having a Llewellyn in the King's seat, but they'll be marching to another drummer within months, you mark my words. We choose that one, we'll be at war within the year, and it won't be with Cornwall or any other Outlander. Our wars will be among ourselves."