The Sorcer part 2: Metamorphosis cc-6

by Jack Whyte

  Upon learning that, Connor had set out to find me immediately, first sailing north to where Huw's forces penned the hapless enemy upon their narrow strip of beach, then heading swiftly south and east to intercept me at Caerdyff. Too late to find me there, he had struck southward again, to find his brother Brander's fleet anchored at the point closest to Camulod. From there, he came inland, arriving at the Colony ahead of us.

  Connor's revelation about Ironhair came as momentous and unwelcome news to me, for since the outset of his tale I had been convinced that the ending would involve the capture or death of my enemy. To learn that he was still alive and still a threat appalled me and left me speechless. I was conscious of the pressure of Tressa's fingers around my own and knew that she was squeezing my hand tightly, but whether in sympathy or in distress I could not tell. Ambrose and Connor both sat silent, watching me until I was ready to speak again, and Ambrose was frowning slightly, evidently perplexed.

  "So," I said at last, "he's still alive and still plotting. That is simply wonderful—exactly what I had hoped and needed to hear. Damnation take the man!"

  Now Ambrose leaned towards me, his frown deeper than before. "Brother, I don't like this, but I have to speak and to ask you something now, so please understand that my question comes from simple ignorance and curiosity. Why are you so violently concerned about this man? Your reaction seems... disproportionate, somehow. I know that you and he are enemies. I also know that he has successfully attempted to suborn some of your people in the past. You threw him out of Camulod, but he has never sought to return here—not really. Why does the mere mention of his name incense you so?

  "Peter Ironhair has never been a direct threat to Camulod. He has never moved overtly to attack us. Certainly, he has invaded Cambria, but that was in support of Carthac Pendragon, who has, however ludicrous it might be, a blood claim to the leadership he seeks. Ironhair's support of his cause may indeed be specious. Nonetheless, Brother, what he does in Cambria should not concern you as greatly as it does, here in Camulod. If and when he ever does move against Camulod, then you will be justified in seeking his death. Until then, I must say I believe you are overreacting, and you are wrong to feel and behave as you do."

  I sat staring at my brother as he spoke, making no effort to mask my astonishment and, I must admit, my displeasure. It was the first time he had ever voiced any doubts about my motivation or my beliefs. Hearing him speak so plainly in disagreement with me made my face flush, and I had to bite back the bitter words that sprang to my tongue. I forced myself to sit still and absorb what Ambrose had said, thinking it through objectively, to the best of my ability, and attempting to see my behaviour through his eyes. But that was impossible: my anger flared, overriding coherent thought. Ambrose knew he had infuriated me, but he was his own man, and he spoke his own beliefs openly and without fear.

  The silence stretched and grew. Connor sat as though carved from wood; Tress, I knew, was gazing down into her lap. Finally, when I felt sure I had mastered my voice and the tone of it, I replied.

  "Very well, let me see if I can satisfy your curiosity. Are you familiar with the old saying, 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend?"' He nodded. "And do you agree with the sentiment?"

  He shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose I do. "

  "Good. What about the corollary: "The enemy of my friend is my enemy. ' Would you agree with that?" I held up my hand, palm outwards. "Don't answer, because it's not important right now. What is important is that / believe it. You and I have not talked about what happened in the final stages of the campaign in Cambria, but the turning point came when Huw Strongarm took up the leadership of all Pendragon. Huw has no ambition for himself—had he any, he would long since have declared himself a contender for the kingship. He is now War Chief of Pendragon, and he has sworn to uphold the honour and freedom of Pendragon in Cambria, maintaining it in trust for the man he believes to be his true king, the son of the king he followed all his life, Uther Pendragon. So Huw rules now, or will rule soon, in Cambria, as regent for Arthur, just as surely as Flavius Stilicho ruled in Rome as regent of the young Emperor Honorius. "

  Ambrose grunted. "Let's hope he fares better than Stilicho did."

  I saw nothing amusing in that. "Think you that's unlikely?"

  Ambrose was already waving me down, shaking his head. "No, of course not. It was a poor and ill considered jest. Please continue. I knew nothing of Huw Strongarm's change of status. You really believe he will support Arthur's claim?"

  "Completely. It is already in hand. I brought Huw's most trusted captain back with me, a man called Llewellyn, an ironsmith and a warrior. He will take Arthur back with him to Cambria, incognito, to live among his own people few a year or so, to learn their ways and live their life among them. I had been excited for the lad, imagining how well he would adapt to new ways without either you or me around to influence him. Now, however, hearing that Ironhair is out there, replenishing his armies, fills me with new concerns. Should he invade again, young Arthur will be there without our support."

  Ambrose sucked air sharply through his teeth. "Should he invade again, with Arthur there and under these new circumstances, then he will indeed be contravening our peace and threatening our nephew—"

  "And mine!" This from Connor.

  "Aye, Connor, and yours," Ambrose continued. "That would change everything, and my concerns are already laid to rest, Cay. I did not know you had made these plans."

  I nodded, mollified, but spoke on. "Thank you for that, but hear the rest of it. I have had dealings with Peter Ironhair. You have not. I know the man, and, to tell the truth, I could have liked him, had things been other than they were. He has much to like about him—a good mind, great strengths and a subtle turn of wit—and he is often generous to his close friends and allies, who value his friendship highly. People follow him instinctively, because he has the attributes of leadership, But he also has much in him to detest. There is something wrong with the man, inside him, and it's not mere ambition. I could live with that. Ironhair has shown himself, to me at least, to be fundamentally treacherous and venal, a venomous creature who will do anything to achieve his own ends. He deals in perfidy and in subornment, seducing friends to vileness and murder. In my mind, he is a serpent. I would kill him with as little thought as I would kill an adder, and feel better for the deed being done, because there would be one less threat in the world for innocent people. I detest him. But more than anything else, I distrust and fear him—not the man himself, but his capacity for evil. I would prefer to know him safely dead. "

  "Hmm. " Ambrose winkled his nose, then nodded. "I think I begin to understand, now. "

  "No, Ambrose, you do not—not really, not yet. You never knew Hector's wife, Julia. She was Bedwyr's mother, and a gentle, lovely woman who never caused a moment's pain to anyone. Ironhair caused her death, directly, when he sent hirelings sneaking into Camulod to murder young Arthur. For that alone, I swore that he would one day the by my hand. Before that day, this Colony of ours had been like Eden. Ironhair destroyed that innocence and drove us out of Camulod into the world, in fear and distrust."

  Connor spoke up, changing the topic. "You said he was replenishing his armies. How can he do that? I know he uses mercenaries, but where does his gold come from? He has to pay them. That's what mercenaries are—a walking demand for payment that you ignore at your peril. "

  "No, Connor. He needs no gold. " My companions looked to me for an explanation. "I've discussed this several times with Huw and Llewellyn. Ironhair's mercenaries are not from Britain. Most of them are Burgundians, from Gaul, and some are Franks. The Burgundians were causing problems for the Romans long before the legions left Gaul, and the entire land across the Narrow Sea is being fought over from north to south. There are far more people over there than are to be found in all of Britain, and they are living in anarchy. There are thousands of landless men, bandits and brigands. Those are Ironhair's conscripts. He offers them the plunder they can find in Britai
n, and he offers diem a home and food and drink and women. So they flock to fight for him, because they're fighting for themselves. It makes them fierce and bitter foes of everyone they meet over here. The only problem he will have with them is in controlling them—and since he simply turns them loose to save his purposes, with no concern over what they do otherwise, that is no problem at all. "

  In the pause that followed someone knocked at the door, which we had locked on entering the room. I glanced at Ambrose, who shrugged in annoyance and shouted, asking who was there. I recognized Arthur's muffled voice at once, and I released Tressa's hand and strode to the double doors. I swung the door quickly open, my face breaking into a grin that changed immediately into wide eyed shock as I set eyes on my ward. He stood directly outside, eye to eye with me, taller than I would ever have imagined he could have become in the short space of months since I had last seen him. He had left me as a boy, approaching manhood. Now, in height at least, he was a man.

  I stepped back quickly, gazing at him, aware of the young woman who stood close behind him but ignoring her as my eyes devoured Arthur Pendragon and the changes I could see in him. He hesitated on the threshold, grinning shyly at me and nodding tentatively to Ambrose, Connor and Tressa in apology for his intrusion. A mere flick of the eyes was all he gave to them, however, and thereafter his eyes remained on me.

  "Merlyn," he said, his voice uncertain. "Welcome home. I wanted to be here when you arrived, and I can hardly believe I was not. We did not expect you until tomorrow."

  I stepped towards him again, spreading my arms, and he came into my embrace, clutching me fiercely. I crushed him in a hug, then pushed him away to arm's length, gazing into his face.

  "You've grown up. I knew you would have, but these three here did not tell me how much." He smiled, but before he could respond I stepped aside, stretching out my hand to young Morag, who stood shyly behind him. "Come in, come in. Morag, it pleases me to see you again. Was your hunting successful? I know you know Ambrose and Tress, but have you met Arthur's Uncle Connor?" She nodded, smiling at Connor, and then moved to stand beside Arthur again, tipping her head demurely to Ambrose and Tressa. Arthur spoke for her.

  "We killed a stag, a good one, but it was I who had to shoot it. Morag decided at the last she did not want to do it." As I looked at him from beneath raised brows, he shrugged. "I would have let it go, then, but Shelagh had spent the entire morning stalking it. I did not want to seem... ungrateful."

  I nodded, smiting still. "You made the right decision. So, you are obviously well—"

  "Aye, well enough. But you must forgive us. I had no thought to interrupt your gathering; I merely wanted to see you and welcome you safely home."

  "I'm glad you did, so don't concern yourself with that. Have you just returned?"

  "Aye, can you not smell the sweat on me? I came straight here without unsaddling."

  "Then shame! I taught you better than that. Go back, then, and take care of your mounts. By the time you've finished that, we'll be done here and you may join us."

  I stood by the door, holding it ajar as I watched them walk away. The lad was broad, as well as tall, his shoulders wide and clean, his back tapering to a narrow waist and hips above long, well muscled legs. He was dressed all in greens, in a dark, quilted tunic that was belted at his waist and emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and pale green leggings tucked into high boots of soft looking, supple leather. His dark brown hair fell to his shoulders, and as he walked through the shadows outside, the yellow streaks that shot through it seemed to be almost white. When they had gone a score of paces, he reached out his arm and placed it about young Morag's waist, directing my attention to the shape of her and the fact that she, too, had left childhood behind. I was conscious of Ambrose standing close behind me, looking over my shoulder.

  "Well," he asked. "What do you think? There's no mistaking that he's one of us, is there?"

  "No," I concurred. "Neither in the size of him nor in his eye for a pretty woman. Has he... I mean, are they... 7'

  "Bedding each other? Not unless they're doing it by magic. That young woman is more closely guarded than your favourite sword. King Brander takes his duties very seriously in that regard, as in all others. The two are in each other's company constantly, but they are never alone for long enough to fall into mischief. When Shelagh's not there, they're with Brander himself, or with Salina, or me, or Tress. They have no time for mischief. Not of the dallying kind."

  Connor had said nothing since Arthur arrived, and now he sat smiling to himself, as though he knew a secret. I caught his eye.

  "What are you grinning at, Connor?"

  "Nothing, nothing at all!" His face mirrored utter innocence. "I'm merely impressed by Camulod's security, for I know that were I my nephew there, and we at home in our isles, there would be no power on earth or in the heavens to keep me from between my true love's legs."

  Tress answered even before I could begin to frame a response to that. "Ha, Connor Mac Athol, but you are a bull at stud, we all know that. No woman could ever resist you— isn't that what you tell yourself? But here is a love story between a sweet young man and a lovely girl who is visiting and is begirt by guardians. Mind you, some day I'll have to hear your wife's opinion on your abilities in that arena."

  "Ah, you've a bitter tongue on you for one so young and beautiful," Connor shot back with a deep sigh.

  I looked back to Ambrose. "I would never have believed he'd grow so big so quickly. He has become enormous! How was he on your journey? Were you pleased with him?"

  "Aye, as pleased as I could have been, and even more than I thought to be. I had expected him to take some time adjusting to being in my charge after having spent so long in yours, but there was no sign of anything of the kind. From the outset, from the moment we rode out, he was a willing student, absorbing all I could throw at him and adapting to my ways and wishes instantly. I kept him hard at work, too, most of the time, but there were times we talked, exchanging values and ideas and coming to know each other. He is a fine and admirable young man, and even my troopers quickly came to hold him in esteem.

  "On our homeward journey, once we were clear of any threat from Horsa's holdings, I sent him out patrolling with the Scouts, as an observer on the first few occasions and under the watchful eyes of my own commanders. But I had such good reports of him that finally I sent him out at the head of one patrol, although I took the precautionary step of providing one of my senior decurions as a nursemaid, just to ensure that nothing went too far awry. The sweep went perfectly, and Arthur showed no need for supervision."

  "Did he know he had a watchdog?" I was remembering how my father and my Uncle Varrus had done the same to Uther and me, when we first rode out on patrol.

  "I don't think he suspected," Ambrose murmured. "Certainly, if he did, he cloaked it admirably."

  "Good. How long has young Morag been here?" The young couple were now lost from my sight and I swung the door shut again.

  Ambrose cocked his head towards Tressa. "How long, Tress, three weeks?"

  "Almost four. They arrived the week after you and Arthur came back." She moved close to me again, slipping her arms about my waist.

  We spoke for a while about the situation in Cambria, and decided that we would send spies out into Cornwall throughout the coming winter, to learn all we could about Ironhair and his plans for the future. Connor contributed little to the conversation now, and I asked him how long he would be staying. He stood up and stretched, balancing himself precariously upon his one foot and his wooden peg, and said he would leave the following morning.

  'And what about your brother?"

  "Brander? What about him?"

  "He's been waiting to talk to me and, according to Ambrose here, what he has to say will not take long. Then he'll be leaving, too. He has affairs of his own to be about. You two might be able to travel together to the coast, if I can conclude our business tonight."

  "Aye," Connor agreed. "Then if we c
an, we will. Now I'm going to go and sleep for a while. I think I'm growing old. If I do not appear by dinner time, send someone to wake me, will you?"

  I sat with Brander and his wife at dinner that night, and as it transpired, we had no need to meet further than that. As Ambrose had said, Brander's sole concern was to arrange for Liam Twistback to renew his tenancy of Huw Strongarm's southern lands, for a minimum of three more years and a maximum of five. They had quickly discovered that the very young bloodstock they were attempting to breed needed better pasturage and did not take kindly to the harshness of the northern winters. Huw's assent to Liam's return was scarcely in doubt, since the relationship they had formerly shared had been a mutually advantageous one and Liam had ingratiated himself with the southern Pendragon, who could be less than cordial when they chose to be. And now I was able to reassure Brander that Huw had survived the war in Cambria, and that the arrangement could be secure. The new king nodded benignly, finally convinced that he could return home and begin gathering his stock together with confidence in their future safety.

  The brothers agreed that they would leave together on the day following the one ahead. As I listened to them, I began to think about how this second parting might affect Arthur , and I glanced about me, looking for him in the body of the refectory. He was sitting among his friends Bedwyr, Gwin and Ghilly, all of them listening closely to Dedalus. Ded was regaling the whole table with some tale either of war and great events, or of nonsense and dark, ironic humour, the latter being much more likely. Sure enough, no sooner had I thought the thought than the entire table exploded into raucous laughter, the boys laughing just as loud and hard as the veteran troopers whose board they shared. Leaning forward then, I peered along the table to my right, where Morag sat beside her mother, her lovely face turned towards the noisy group. That Arthur would be made unhappy by her departure was beyond dispute. His new adventure into Cambria was, I decided, the best thing I could wish for. With the resilient energy and curiosity of youth, he might be able him to bury his grief in the challenges ahead. I resolved, then and there, to pack him off quickly.