by Jack Whyte
That night I awoke long before dawn with a vision in my mind, a vision that might well have been a dream. I saw Arthur, years older than he was, holding Excalibur in front of him as he stood within a ring of shining young men, all of them helmed and uniformly armoured and gazing at him in love and admiration. I sat up in bed in the darkness and concentrated upon what I had seen, drinking in the brightness and the light that surrounded this assembly until it faded from my memory, and then I lay back down and vainly tried to go back to sleep.
FOURTEEN
I was up and abroad well before dawn the next morning, but by the time I emerged from my tent the business of breaking camp was already well in hand. Indeed, it had been the noises from the horse picket lines and the sounds of wagons being loaded that had driven me from my cot. I washed quickly in cold water at the communal ablutions area and foraged a cold breakfast for myself in the camp kitchens, then spent the next few hours touring the encampment, supervising the preparations for departure.
A strong, warm breeze sprang up out of the west soon after daylight and grew warmer as the sun climbed higher in the sky, so that by the time we set out, the small banners on our squadron leaders' spears were fluttering almost horizontally and our standard bearers were having difficulty with the great, square banners that proclaimed our identity: my own great silver bear, picked out on thick, black cloth, and the rampant dragon of Camulod, white on a field of red.
Our exodus seemed chaotic at first, since most of the throng who had gathered to welcome Germanus waited until we were ready to set forth, then fully half of them scattered to the winds to make their own ways homeward. By the time we had travelled half a mile, however, most of these travellers had disappeared from view and we were left alone, an arrow straight, strong column moving northward at the pace of our slowest wagons, the heavy, wide wheeled, mule drawn vehicles that housed our commissary. Here, far from any road and travelling through a countryside of gently rolling, treeless hills, these wagons were our greatest strength, since they held our supplies, and also our greatest weakness, since they were vulnerable to every hillock and declivity they encountered. The ground was firm, however, and there were few boulders on the chalky, grass covered terrain, so although the progress of the wagons was slow, they moved forward without difficulty, their wide, iron tyres leaving sharp edged impressions in the shallow soil.
We carried our travelling rations in our saddlebags and ate in our saddles at noon without pausing to rest, since our leisurely rate of travel posed no threat to our horses' stamina. Some time after that, perhaps an hour later, I smelled an elusive hint of smoke. Philip, who was riding at my side, detected it on the same gust of wind and identified it as grass smoke. I nodded, and we rode on, but the hint we had detected strengthened to an ever present, growing stink, and soon the distances ahead of us were obscured in a drifting haze through which I saw Dedalus and Benedict cantering back towards us from their advance position with our foremost scouts.
The. hills ahead, to the north and west of us, were all ablaze and burning fiercely, they reported, a blaze fanned and fed by the steady, constant western wind. They had approached the fire's leading edges, hoping to find them narrow and quickly passable, but the chalky subsoil yielded there to a deep layer of peaty roots and the fire was smouldering far beneath the surface, knee deep in places, precluding any hope of dashing across the flames to safety.
Access to the north was blocked, Dedalus said lugubriously, and we would have to swing right, towards the east, to circumvent the fires.
There was no point in complaining, and even less in growing angry. A single glance at Ded's condition—grimy, red eyed and soot stained—bore out the truth of his report. I issued orders to Philip to change the direction of our march and sent Ded and Benedict to pull our scouting parties back and away from the fires, matching our change of heading. Our train swung right immediately, heading directly east, ? and that pleased me not at all, although I kept my dissatisfaction to myself at the time. Directly ahead of us on this new course lay the Weald and Horsa's newly landed horde ' of Danes, and I had no wish to stir up that nest of wasps. '
Our change of direction produced an immediate reaction among Germanus's retinue, and within a very short time the bishop himself came riding to join me at the head of our procession. We were expected to the north, he pointed out with some anxiety, and arrangements had been made for us to pass unmolested through the lands we would traverse, but no such measures had been put in place to the eastward. How far did I intend to deviate from our planned itinerary?
I explained that we would ride east until the wind; changed and the fires to the north of us died out, and then' we would skirt the edges of the burn until we could swing west again and regain our original route. He nodded hit head in acceptance, but his frustration matched my own. Even were the fires to die immediately, direct access to the north would be denied us, since the blackened ground precluded any grazing for our horses. Our route lay now within the hands of God, in whom we must place our trust.
For the next four days we rode in a great, looping arc, headed generally east but tending to the north as much as possible. Armed scouting parties scoured the lands ahead of us in double strength, and every man in our main column was on the alert for trouble at all times. The winds died down during the night of the second day, and regular reports arrived from Ded and Benedict about conditions north and west of where we were, so that by the morning of the fourth day we had descended from the uplands and were headed north west again, through a landscape of saplings and dense brush. This route took us past surprisingly prosperous farms, carved from the bushy wilderness that formed the outer edge of a huge, forested area to the east of us. There were still no roads in this region, which had been of no use to the Romans, but there were signs of human habitation everywhere and wandering paths abounded, meandering from farm to tiny farm between the larger, impenetrable thickets.
All of the people hereabouts, Germanus informed me, were Anglians, many of whom had landed in these? parts decades and even generations earlier and were now settled peacefully, working the land and providing for their numerous progeny. I sniffed and kept my wits about me, implicitly distrusting and disliking anyone who was neither Celt nor Roman bred. I saw no signs of hostility among these folk, however, and I took note of the genuine warmth that seemed to exist between them and the bishops. I was relieved, too, when I realized that the sheer population density of these Anglians, the way they swarmed upon the land, was a form of protection for us in itself. Horsa's Danes would find no foothold here, for all the space was taken up.
On the afternoon of that fourth day, we finally intersected our original route and headed directly north again, and as the afternoon was growing late, the shadows lengthening from the setting sun, we reached a group of people who had evidently been awaiting us. As we approached them, a man and woman came forward to meet Germanus. Despite the fact that they were obviously Anglians, I was struck by the dignity and self possessed authority that marked them. The man's name, Germanus told me, was Cuthric. I could see for myself, merely from his posture, his height and the way he comported himself, that he was some kind of leader among his people. He was a tall, upright man who held himself as though on permanent display, and he moved with an easy grace and a natural sense of dignity that set him apart from everyone around him. He was richly dressed, his clothes made of a heavy, dark-green fabric that seemed luxurious beside the plain, homespun garments of his fellow Anglians. Full bearded, he seemed to flaunt a mane of thick, golden hair that hung down to broad shoulders that! suggested their owner could hold his own against any challenge to his strength. The woman was clearly his wife, almost as tall as her consort, with the same thick, lustrous, ? golden tresses, and a single, draped robe of white, edged ,; with the same dark green. She bore herself with such unconscious regality that there could be no question regarding to whom she belonged. Together, they presented a portrait of self possession and close knit probity.
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sp; Germanus's face was creased in an enormous, welcoming smile. "Pardon me, Merlyn," he murmured, then> addressed the newcomers in their own tongue, rattling the incomprehensible gibberish off as though it were Latin. I gaped, never having heard him speak this language or suspected that he might be able to. Finally the bishop turned to me again, laying his hand on my forearm.
"Their names are Cuthric and Cayena," he began, and I took note of the woman's strange but lovely name. I bowed my head towards the two and smiled at diem, murmuring something pleasant and meaningless, which Germanus translated into what sounded like an ode. He must have been eloquent indeed, because man and wife both looked at me and inclined their heads, as though in gratitude or deference.
"Cuthric has great power among the Anglian people," Germanus told me then. "He is not what we would call a king, because the Anglians themselves do not deal in kingships, but he is undoubtedly the paramount leader in these parts, revered for his wisdom and his gift of dispensing justice even handedly. His correct title is jarl, but to call him a chief might be a better way of describing him, but he is also something of a..." He paused, searching for a word. "I was about to say a holy man, but that is inaccurate, in the context within which I was speaking. Holy man he may be, but he is a devout and exemplary Christian. The Latin term magus is closer to the mark."
I blinked, looking at Cuthric and then at Germanus. "A magus? You mean a magician? A sorcerer?"
"Of course not. Have I not said he is a devout Christian? He is a sage, a wise and learned man, steeped in the ancient traditions of his people, and as such they honour him greatly. Now he will accompany us northward and his presence—even more than your thousand—will ensure that we are not molested." His smile took any hint of insult from his last remark.
"Good, then, that pleases me. We need every helping hand stretched out to us until we are well clear of Horsa's threat. I'll leave you now, to tend to your new guests. I have matters enough to keep me occupied until you are ready to leave again."
I saluted Cuthric and the stately Cayena with a crisply military clenched fist raised to my left breast, and then swung my horse around and headed back towards my troops, who were looped in a long, loose formation about the farm. I stood them down and sat on the ground next to Tress, Shelagh and Donuil for the next half hour, exchanging pleasantries while Germanus conducted his affairs. When he reappeared, with the Anglian couple in tow, we found room for them in one of the passenger wagons, and shortly thereafter we were on our way again.
In the days that followed, I found myself in Cuthric's company frequently, for he was always close to Germanus, the two of them prattling away in whatever tongue it was they spoke together, although I must admit, injustice, that they never failed to abandon whatever they were discussing when I appeared, after which Germanus and I would speak in Latin while he translated for Cuthric's benefit.
I had two of the most important conversations of my life within the week that followed Cuthric's arrival, one of them carefully planned and much thought over in advance, the other purely spontaneous, and it has galled me for years that the second of them did not occur until that week was almost over. Had it occurred sooner, on the other hand, the first conversation, undoubtedly the more important of the; two, would never have taken place at all.
I had expected to be able to spend some time alone with Germanus within the first few days of meeting him, but that; was not to be. There was an endless traffic of clerics along our route, finding us as if by magic, no matter which way ; our path might wend. Those messengers, each of whom; brought tidings of great or lesser gravity to the bishop's; attention, demanded all of his time for the first period of days, the meetings sometimes lasting well into the night. Germanus told me that as he grew older he found less and less need for sleep, and after hearing the talk among our troopers, who often passed the time with him on the predawn watch, I believed him. Yet he was never out of scats or sleepy looking when the new day dawned. Instead he was up and about, bright eyed and cheerful, feeding himself and climbing into the stirrups like a much younger man.
A few days after we had settled back onto our northward route, on a late evening after the watch fires had burned past their first height, he called to me as I was passing by his tent on my way to my own, after a cursory patrol of our perimeter. I stuck my head in through the flaps and found him sitting at the folding table, talking with two of his bishops. He looked up with a smile.
"Do you think you could conjure a flask of mead tonight, my friend? We have almost finished here, and I am aware that I have spent no time with you since dragging you out here to meet with me. I know we both have much to discuss with each other. "
I nodded to the other two bishops, then grinned at him. "Aye, I can find a flask or two, but what about food? Have you eaten today? No matter, I'll bring some bread and fresh broiled meat, and we'll eat here. When should I come?"
Germanus looked at the other two and both men shrugged their shoulders and professed themselves well satisfied with what they had achieved.
"How quickly can you find the victuals?"
"Stay there, I'll be back directly. "
I returned a short time later with two flasks of Shelagh's own mead, drawn from the enormous keg she had insisted on transporting with us in the commissary wagons. I crossed to the table and set the flasks down safely, then pulled two horn cups from my scrip before unhooking the long sword that hung in its sheath between my shoulder blades. I had forgotten I was wearing it. Now I placed it carefully in a corner of the tent, propping it in the angle of the leather walls. "The food will be here shortly," I said over my shoulder.
I filled both cups and handed one to him, and we had barely raised them to our lips when three troopers came to the entrance of his tent, one carrying another folding table and the others each bearing an enormous wooden platter; one contained a mound of thick sliced, succulent wild boar and a large jug of dark, red wine, and the other two loaves of fresh, crusty bread, a dish of boiled greens still steaming from the pot, a jar of olive oil and another of olives pickled in brine. Germanus marked my amazement and smiled, gesturing towards the delicacies and the wine jug. "I brought them for you, as a gift," he said. "I remember how much you enjoyed these olives in Verulamium, and how you said you had not seen or tasted their like in years."
"Nor have I seen them since," I said, with reverence in my voice.
His smile grew wider. "The wine is from our own vineyards in Gaul. I had my brethren deliver these things to your quartermaster, knowing he would hold them in trust for you. He evidently decided to broach the supplies tonight. We can but hope he did so in secrecy, for I brought merely enough for your own enjoyment."
We ate like kings that evening, enjoying the lack of urgency and the pleasure of renewing our friendship. We spoke of many things throughout the lengthy meal, and most of them were inconsequential, although we discussed the Cambrian campaign against Ironhair and Carthac and spoke at even greater length about the growth of the communities around Camulod and the resurgence of hope that was occurring there. By the end of the meal, when the last of the brine pickled olives had been consumed and the few remaining drops of olive oil had been mopped up on soft, rich bread, little remained of the wild pig meat and even less of the full, rich, heavy wine.
Germanus slumped lower in his chair and belched delicately, covering his mouth with one hand. "You cannot know how good it feels, my friend, to eat to satiation for once. I seldom take the time to eat an entire meal nowadays, and when I do, it is rarely that I eat this well. Show me that sword of yours, will you?"
I rose and collected the sword from where it leaned in the corner, unsheathing it carefully before offering it to him hilt first. He held it straight armed, horizontally in front of him, with greater ease than I would have thought possible, considering his age. He squinted along the blade to test its straightness, then tested the edge with the ball of his thumb, producing a hair thin line of blood. "I barely touched the thing, " he whispered.
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"Aye, it's a sharp one. " .
"Miraculously so, some men might say. " He was still peering closely at the weapon, now touching its broad cross guard with the fingers of his left hand. "I have never seen its match. Where did you find it? May I ask you that?"
"Aye, you may. Our master smith made it, in Camulod. "
"Ah, but whence came the iron? It seems... different, somehow. "
"It is. It's skystone metal. " I saw from his face that he had no notion what I meant, and it might have been the excellent wine that prompted me, but I suddenly found myself telling him the story of Publius Varrus and his skystone. I tried to keep it brief, and I omitted any mention of Excalibur, but it is not a tale that lends itself to brevity, and by the time I had finished, it was growing dark within the tent He sat silent, his eyes gleaming in the heavy shadows as he thought of what I had told him.
As I looked around the tent I saw the glimmer of a tiny, solitary votive candle in the farthest corner. "The light of learning," I murmured.
"What?"
"It's dark in here, quite suddenly, and I was recalling that you used to burn fine candles in profusion late at night."
"I still do, though not as profligately as I recall you did. Here, let's light some."
He pulled himself out of his chair and gave me back my sword, then crossed to where a makeshift curtain hung against one wall of the tent and pulled it back to reveal a long, low table ranked with candelabra. He then lit a taper from the single votive lamp and went about lighting the larger candles, almost a score of them, turning the tent's interior into a fantastical array of soft, yellow, dancing light. I sat and watched him, aware that the effects of his fine wine had worn off in the telling of my tale, and remembering that the mead I had poured for both of us hours earlier still sat upon the small table, virtually untouched. I rose and fetched the cups, handing his to him as he settled down again.