The Lance Thrower cc-8

by Jack Whyte

  “Well, the cavalry commander who rescued me that day,” Father Germanus said, “was Caius Merlyn Britannicus, from a fortified colony called Camulod, in the west of Britain. He calls himself simply Merlyn of Camulod, and he and I became close friends, even though we had little time to get to know each other. Life works that way, sometimes. Anyway; I saw Merlyn again when I was in Britain several months ago—you may recall that I returned from there just before you left to go home—and he and I resumed our friendship where we had left off. He is a fascinating man, Clothar. Far more so now even than he was when we first met, almost two decades ago. He and I spent much time discussing certain matters of great moment for both him and me, and I made him a promise that I would return within the year to assist him with his plans and to perform a particular service for him.” He twisted his face into a grimace. “Alas, the Pope has called upon me to attend a conclave with the senior bishops in Italia, and I am constrained to obey. Unfortunately, that makes it impossible for me to keep my promise to a dear friend, and you can have no idea how deeply that angers and distresses me.

  “Merlyn will understand my dilemma when he learns of it, I know, but the thought of merely writing him a letter is offensive to me. That would be too impersonal, and although Merlyn never would think so, I would perceive it as demeaning. And so I decided to ask you if you would be willing to go to Britain and meet with Merlyn on my behalf, to explain why I cannot be there and to carry my suggestions as to what he should do now that I have failed him.”

  I cleared my throat, and when he looked at me questioningly I asked him if he could tell me about the personal service he was now unable to perform for Merlyn. He nodded.

  “I promised him I would officiate at the coronation of his young ward, Arthur. The young man is quite extraordinary. I have never met him in person, but I have been in correspondence with him for a long time, at Merlyn’s request, and everything that I have read of his is most impressive. But apart from being scholarly and remarkably self-disciplined in his thinking, he also appears, from all accounts, to be outstandingly responsible in other, equally important areas. If he continues to make the kind of progress he has been achieving in the recent past, then according to Merlyn, and despite his extreme youth—he is a mere two years older than you—he will soon hold overall command of the cavalry forces of Camulod. He is also a devout and dedicated Christian.”

  There was no hint of condemnation or even accusation in the bishop’s voice. “Now, that may cause you and your friends to roll your eyes, I know, but it is of extreme importance to us, within the Church, and I can only ask you to accept my personal assurance on that matter. God’s Church in Britain is in great danger at this time, gravely threatened by invading hordes of savage and implacable enemies who are godless and see Christianity as a laughable weakness. The people of Britain, including Merlyn’s people of Camulod, refer to the newcomers as Saxon Outlanders, but as such things always are, that name is far too simplistic. It implies that the invaders are of one race and one origin, whereas the truth is nowhere close to that. These so-called Saxons are a mixture of different peoples—Jutes and Anglians, Germanians and Danes, Saxons from the Danube and other, giant, blond-haired people who simply call themselves Northmen. Many of these people—most notably the Anglians—seek only a place to raise their families in peace and free of hunger. Their sole claim to the title of invaders is that they have moved in from beyond the seas, but few of them are fiercely warlike or aggressive. Others among them are, however, and among the most bloodthirsty of those are the real Saxons. Hence the name applied to all of them … it is a matter of the basest few earning hatred and fear for all of them.

  “It appears, however, that the Saxons have set out to destroy God’s Church in Britain, because they recognize it, correctly, as a buttress and a rallying point for the ordinary folk of Britain to come together and withstand the Saxon threat. And so we are receiving reports that within the territories now being held by the invaders, few Christians—bishops, priests, or simple faithful—have been left alive.

  “The forces of Camulod, properly ranged against the invaders with appropriate backing and the authority of the Church in Britain, could represent the salvation of our Faith. So I have written an episcopal letter to the current bishop of Verulamium, asking him to officiate at the crowning in my stead and to enlist the support of his fellow bishops in the enterprise. That is one of the documents I wish you to take with you when you go.”

  I nodded my head in compliance. “Of course, Father. When would you like me to leave?”

  The bishop laughed. “Not tonight, at least,” he said, “although I suppose you could, were it necessary. In the hope that you would be willing to do this for me, I have had everything ready for you to take for some time now, since I myself must leave tomorrow, as you know, for Italia. I admit, I was beginning to grow concerned, for both of us, that you might not arrive before I had to leave—but you are here now and nothing is lost. So … there is no immediate urgency for you to flee from here but you should not delay unduly, for the autumn gales will soon start stirring up the Narrow Seas between here and Britain, and no sane mariner will embark into the open sea once those begin. If you are tardy and miss the fair weather, you could be stuck on the coast for months on end before you can make a crossing. It happens frequently enough to make the seasoned traveler wary.”

  “Then I will leave tomorrow.”

  “Alone?”

  There was something in his tone that gave me pause, and I hesitated because I had not even begun to consider what might be involved in this matter. He nodded, his expression grave. “Think about that carefully, Clothar. You may want to find someone to travel with you. I have no doubts of your ability, but you are embarking on a long and potentially harsh journey, filled with unforeseeable dangers, and looking at it purely from the viewpoint of common sense, it would be better not to tackle it alone with no one to watch your back.”

  “I have a friend who rode here with me. He was with Duke Lorco’s party when they came here in the spring and he and I were the only two to survive whatever befell the Duke. He is older than I am, a mercenary and a fine soldier. His name is Ursus and we have become friends. He might be willing to come with me. I’ll ask him.”

  The bishop nodded sagely. “Excellent,” he said. “Now let me tell you more of Merlyn and his plans.”

  For upward of an hour then, he spoke to me glowingly of his friend Merlyn Britannicus and of Camulod, Merlyn’s home, and what it represented. Choosing his words with care, he told me briefly about how two of Merlyn’s ancestors, Publius Varrus and Caius Britannicus, had decided to remain in Britain after the departure of the legions and to fend for themselves and their dependants in a self-sufficient colony that they established in their own lands, a colony that had ended up being called Camulod, although the Camulod that they actually built was a stone-walled fortress surrounding an ancient hilltop fort that had existed since before Julius Caesar had landed in Britain four hundred years earlier.

  Since its beginnings, the Camulod colony had thrived and expanded, especially after Caius Britannicus became the custodian of hundreds of heavy cavalry mounts abandoned by the armies of the imperial regent Stilicho when they were urgently called home, never to return to Britain. From then on, Camulod had become an equestrian society, and its defenders, who had always been soldiers trained in the Roman tradition, had become heavy cavalry troops, trained in the methods of Alexander of Macedon, whose own cavalry, six hundred years earlier, had conquered the known world and earned their monarch the title of “Great.” Camulod’s forces were now famed for protecting decency and human dignity within a land where anarchy and chaos had been proliferating now for decades.

  Looking me straight in the eye, Germanus told me that Merlyn Britannicus, the third generation of his family to govern in Camulod, was one of the finest men he had ever known, but that he was even more impressive as a visionary. Born of mixed Roman and Cambrian Celtic blood, Merlyn had been t
aught by Druids for much of his early boyhood, learning the ways of that religion, but he had also been well and thoroughly trained by his Roman guardians in the classical, traditional methods of learning—including reading and writing, which the Druids lacked—and equally exposed to Christian teachings, so that his education had been far reaching. I found myself unimpressed by that as I listened, but I began to pay much more attention when the bishop moved on to tell me about Merlyn’s guardianship of the boy Arthur Pendragon.

  This boy was being trained by Merlyn Britannicus not merely to govern Camulod but to govern the entire land of Britain as Riothamus, or High King. Germanus told me that the young man Arthur still had no idea of the destiny Merlyn had in mind for him. The boy believed, rather, that he was merely being raised and trained to be the finest man that he could be.

  Any tendency I might have had to scoff at such a high-sounding claim died quickly when I realized that I was in much the same position—not, certainly, in being a king in training, but most definitely in finding myself surrounded at all times by teachers and instructors whom I respected and admired for their integrity, honesty, and abilities, and being guided by one towering mentor who was so clearly admirable and incorruptible that the idea of bringing shame or dishonor to him was impossible to think about.

  Speaking clearly and explaining his thoughts to me as he went along, Germanus detailed the various things he wanted me to do when I arrived in Merlyn’s Camulod. The most obvious of these, and the one requiring least explanation, was the transportation and delivery of a substantial package of letters and documents. Those were for Merlyn’s eyes only, and even though the bishop admitted that Merlyn might be one of fewer than a score of nonclerical people in all Britain who still knew how to read—for there had been no schools and no teachers there since the Romans left, four decades earlier—he emphasized the dangers of people perhaps wanting to destroy the missives simply because they could not read and thus felt belittled and insulted. I mulled that point over in silence. It seemed to me that the bishop was exaggerating the danger to the documents.

  The second thing he wanted me to deal with was far more in keeping with his wishes as a churchman. In all of Britain, it appeared, there was no permanent ecclesia—no house of God dedicated solely as a place wherein men might worship the Deity. Gaul had many ecclesiae nowadays, and more were proliferating like mushrooms everywhere priests traveled, but they were an innovation that had only come into fashion in recent years. Before the days of Constantine the Great, a hundred years earlier, the Church and its adherents had known much persecution and had met and worshipped in secrecy, but with the conversion of the Emperor himself to Christianity all of that had changed. Now it was not only feasible but desirable for permanent places of worship to be established in populous centers for the greater glory of God. As always, and as in everything, Bishop Germanus thought in terms of God’s greater glory.

  Germanus wanted Merlyn—and his ward, Arthur—to build a stone church on their own lands, the very first ecclesia in Britain. He had discussed the matter with Merlyn while he was there on the island, but Merlyn had told him that there was no source of suitable stone or rock close to Camulod. He had promised, however, that once his agenda had been fulfilled and he had the leisure to find such a suitable source, he would give serious thought to building a simple edifice of stone that could serve the people of the region as a permanent place of worship. My task was to remind him of that promise.

  And then came the most important charge with which I was to be entrusted. Germanus had also asked Merlyn to consider establishing within Britain a new order solemnly dedicated ad majorem Dei gloriam—to the greater glory of God. This order need not be religious, nor civil or military. It would be new—something unknown under the sun before now—and its primary purpose would be to glorify God by its very existence. Merlyn, it seemed, had promised to consider that, as well as the ecclesia, and I was to remind him of that promise, too.

  “What kind of order did you have in mind, Father?”

  Germanus looked at me in silence for a long time, a half smile on his lips, and then he shook his head. “I have no idea, my son.” He watched as my consternation and lack of understanding blossomed on my face, and his smile broadened into a grin that was filled with serene confidence. “It is not my place to know such things, Clothar. How could I be equipped to devise such a project? It would be hubris of the worst kind even to think about attempting such a thing. God Himself knows what He requires men to do in His name and to His glory, and when the time comes for something to be done, He will implant the shape and substance of His wish in the mind of someone—perhaps Merlyn, perhaps not—who will then cause it to become reality, and the order will be born. My task, when the idea first occurred to me, was simply to plant the thought in the mind of Merlyn Britannicus, as I am sure I was meant to do. He is facing a life filled with new possibilities, once his new kingdom is established. It may fail abjectly, but it may flourish wonderfully—only God Himself can see into the future and discern what lies ahead. Those of us who are no more than human can only place our trust in His goodwill and wait to be enlightened.

  “Now, to other matters. We know what you must do in Britain. Now we must bend our minds to bringing you there safely. You have never been aboard a ship, have you? I thought not. Very well, here are our priorities. We must first deliver you safely to the coast. After that, we must find you a ship that will fit your needs, and we must make sure that you can use it.” He turned slightly in his chair to look at me, his eyes moving down the length of me.

  “We need to speak of arms and armor now. From what Tiberias Cato tells me, your armor and weapons are well used and serviceable enough, but the overall appearance of your arms and equipment, with the sole exception of Cato’s own spatha, now yours, leaves much to be desired, in the face of the tasks I shall require of you. That, however, is simply remedied.” He called out a name that sounded like Armand, and a tall, strapping young cleric came in immediately from the anteroom, where he had apparently been waiting for the summons.

  The bishop thanked him for his patience and asked him to bring in the articles that lay on the bed in his private chambers, and the fellow bowed and left, to return soon thereafter, walking with care and straining beneath the weight of a cumbersome box fashioned of rough wooden planks. It was as wide as my forearm is long, and twice as deep as it was wide. Besides being heavy, the thing was clearly awkward to carry, despite its having been furnished with handles of hempen rope. Armand carried it carefully over to the fireplace and lowered it cautiously to the floor, grunting loudly with relief as he released it and straightened up.

  Armand fetched two more boxes, one atop the other, both smaller but apparently no lighter than the first one. The larger of these also had carrying handles attached, but these were of heavy, stitched leather, and the box had been smoothed and stained. It was perhaps two handspans in depth, the same from front to back and at least half again as much across the front. The one that sat on top of that, however, was vastly different. This was a solidly made hinged chest of precious citrus wood with an elaborate brass spring-lock, the key to which hung by a wire from the brass handle on the lid. Ornately carved on all five surfaces and lustrously polished to a sheen that reflected the flickering light from the fire in the brazier, the container was the kind of costly artifact that spoke loudly of enormous wealth and privilege. Citrus wood was so precious, and so much in demand, that there had been rumors circulating for decades that it had been entirely used up and no longer grew anywhere in the world. I had never actually seen citrus wood, and no one I knew had, either, but I recognized the magnificence of what I was looking at immediately and knew it could be nothing other than the fabled wood. I knew, too, that the piece in front of me was probably hundreds of years old, an heirloom of the ancient family of which Germanus was the sole remaining member.

  Armand hoisted his burden onto the table, then placed the two smaller containers side by side. That done, he tu
rned and bowed slightly to the bishop and then glided unobtrusively back out to the anteroom.

  “Another new face, Father,” I murmured, trying not to make my curiosity about the boxes too obvious. “There have been many changes in the months since I went away.”

  The bishop shrugged. “Aye, I can see where it might seem thus to you, but there have been no more than usual. You simply never noticed it before, because you were always here and for more than five years you absorbed each new face automatically and without thought as it came along. Now you have been gone for more than half a year and are seeing them all at once.” He bowed his head and rubbed the palm of his right hand with his left thumb, then looked back at me.

  “Tell me about this friend of yours, this Ursus. Is he a good man?”

  “You mean in the manner of Christian goodness, Father? I believe so. I have never seen anything to indicate otherwise.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. I meant good in the military sense. Is he trustworthy?”

  “Of course, absolutely.”

  “Are you convinced of that? That you could trust him with your life?”

  I smiled. “I already have, Father, several times, and I have never felt the slightest doubt in his reliability, his courage, or his strength.”

  “Hmm. What about money?”

  “What about it, Father? I have none and neither has Ursus—he is a mercenary. But we have no need of money.”

  “There is always a need for money, in some guise or another, believe me. You may drift across the land attending to your own requirements for as long as you wish and you will have no real need for money. But come the moment when you have to undertake a task like those I have set you here, you will need money and a strong supply of it, for you are entering a realm where only money achieves effects. Thus the reason I am asking you about your friend: you will be carrying large sums of money with you and on your person. I merely wish to be assured that this Ursus is able enough to defend you against thieves and trustworthy enough that he will not be tempted to become a thief himself. Tell me all that you know about him.”