by Jack Whyte
As I moved around the screen of bushes and into the lovely little campsite, my surprise grew. A single blanket lay upon the mossy, grass-covered mound at its centre, and the young woman knelt, head down, wrapping the ends of another blanket around a long, compact bundle. I saw no tent, and only the smallest kind of fire, without cooking stones or utensils. I stopped short, my eyes scanning the clearing.
"By the gods, Luke, you were serious! You intended to return to Camulod today."
"Well of course! Why would you doubt it?"
"But you'll never make it. It's more than twelve miles and it'll be dark in a couple of hours."
"Aye." He looked up at the sky. "Well, we did lose track of the time slightly."
The young woman now rose to her feet, clutching her bundle to her chest. In doing so, however, she somehow managed to step on the skirts of her own clothing, pulling herself sharply off balance so that she lurched and lost her grip on her burden. It sagged and fell apart with a strange series of hollow- sounding noises, and I gaped in disbelief as a cascade of shiny bones clattered to the ground. That they were anything other than human was a possibility dispelled immediately by the shiny skull that rolled towards me and came to rest by my foot, its upper teeth seemingly sunk into the mossy ground and its hollow sockets glaring up at me. Bereft of words, I turned slowly to look at Lucanus. His eyes, too, were on the skull.
"Aye," he muttered after a prolonged moment of silence. "A pretty skull." He stooped and retrieved it, wiping a trace of dirt with reverence from its polished brow before passing it in silence to the young woman, who promptly knelt in front of him, ignoring me completely, and began from the beginning, spreading the blanket wide and piling the large collection of bones—even my unpractised eye could see arm and leg bones and ribs and a pelvis—in the centre of the square. I was gazing in fascination at a small, blue bag that lay among them.
"What's in the bag?"
"What?" Lucanus, distracted, had to glance to see where I was looking. "Oh! Phalanges, metacarpals, metatarsals, other small bones. . hands and feet."
I realized I should not have asked, as a vision of the brocaded bag that had held the dismembered hands and feet of Gulrhys Lot Hashed into my mind. Lucanus was moving.
"Come, we had best be on our way. No point in losing any more time than we have already."
"No, Luke, wait." He turned to face me, almost in mid stride. I glanced at the girl. "I meant what I said. It's too late. The night will be black as I lades and you'll only be inviting trouble if you insist on trying to win back to Camulod in utter darkness. Better to stay here and head back at dawn. Have you any sleeping mats?"
He shook his head in a mild negative.
I grinned and sighed. "Well, no matter. I have resources to provide bedding for all of us, providing the night is not too cold. And we can build a larger fire. What about food? Is there any?" Again a negative. I sighed again, this time less patiently. "Can you fish?"
"Er.."
"I can." This was the young woman. I glanced at her, trying to ignore her beauty and the visions of her and Lucanus that were flickering behind my eyes.
"Good. I have lines and hooks, and I know there's fish aplenty in the stream there. If you don't object to catching some fish for us to eat, I'll go looking for something more meaty, while it's still light enough to shoot. What's your name?"
"Ludmilla." Her great blue eyes looked at me directly as though challenging me. I felt a tiny frown flick at my brow. The name was familiar. Ludmilla. I sought it briefly, but could not place it, then merely shrugged and directed her to my saddlebags, where she would find fishing lines and hooks. While she was doing that, I gave Lucanus my tinderbox and instructed him to light a fire, after which I stripped off my armour thankfully, and clad only in my tunic and sandals, gathered up my bow and quiver.
An hour later I returned with a fine hare that I had taken on the run with a well-flighted arrow. Ludmilla was still fishing, and Lucanus sat alone by the fire, which he had nurtured and bordered with large flat stones for cooking on. My collapsible cooking irons formed a tripod over the flames from which hung my leather boiling bag, the water in it just beginning to steam. Behind Luke, close by the fire but far enough away to leave us room to move around, my leather tent was pitched and a shelter had been rigged over the lower limb of the nearby fir tree. I could see a pile of fresh-cut bracken within my tent, and another between that and the blanket shelter. That gave me pause. I had assumed that he and Ludmilla would share a couch.
"That's a splendid-looking hare."
I grinned at him. "Isn't it? Took him in full flight, too, with one arrow. He was going like the wind." I dropped my bow and quiver and took the hare to the water's edge, where I began to skin it. "Good thing I did, too. It was almost too dark to see by the time I found him, and he was the only living thing I'd seen. Has Ludmilla had any luck?"
"Of course she has. Look." Ludmilla's voice came from behind me, and I turned to see her brandishing a trio of lovely trout, each one a meal in itself.
We ate like courtiers that night, sitting by the fireside long after darkness had fallen. Familiar with the place, I had known exactly where to find wild onions and garlic, since I had planted them myself, with my boyhood mentor, the Legate Titus, many years earlier. With young nettle shoots and a liberal pinch of salt from my cooking supplies, they turned the hare into a stew fit for the gods, and while it simmered, Ludmilla prepared the fish she had caught and I took the opportunity to walk downstream and bathe in the darkness, scrubbing the travels' stains from my skin with icy water, then towelling myself dry afterwards. By the time my teeth had stopped chattering, I had returned to the welcoming fire where we nibbled on fresh trout that had been garnished with onion and sprinkled with salt before being cooked slowly, wrapped in burdock leaves laid on the flat stones at the edge of the fire. We had no bread, but Lucanus, it transpired, carried in his saddlebags a quartet of nested metal bowls, used for many medicinal purposes, none of which included the serving of food therein, although they were perfect for precisely such a use. And from his saddle bow he retrieved a capacious, almost full wineskin, some of which I added to the contents of our stew-pot. As our leisurely meal progressed, I came to understand that there was nothing of the carnal in the relationship between my two companions. What there was, in fact, remained unmentioned, but whatever it was, it lacked sensuality. They behaved towards each other like courteous neighbours, and I soon became convinced that this had nothing to do with my presence.
Reluctant to pry, I avoided the topic of their strange presence in this place by asking Lucanus to bring me up to date on what had been happening in Camulod in the month I had been away. All was well, he told me, although Donuil had not yet returned from his quest to find my brother Ambrose. But Aunt Luceiia was in good health, he said, and everything was as it should be—except for some recent bad tidings. His voice died away, and I could see he was searching for words, looking distinctly uncomfortable. I waited, saying nothing, and finally he cleared his throat decisively and looked me straight in the eye.
"There's ill news of Uther, Cay. A report—several of them, in fact—that he might have been killed in Cornwall. Nothing definite, you understand . . . simply reports, all unconfirmed, and all very recent. His army suffered a massive defeat against Lot, a few weeks ago, somewhere in the southwest. An appalling slaughter. Apparently Uther marched into an elaborate trap. From what we've heard, he came against two armies where he expected only one, and was caught between them. Popilius was there, and survived, but he has been too ill since his return to tell us anything concrete. He has pneumonia, but I have high hopes for his recovery, despite his age and his weakness from his wounds. The main party of survivors has not yet reached Camulod, unless they arrived today. They have a large train of wounded with them, I'm told.
"Anyway, Popilius and his escort, a group of twenty men, arrived two days ago after having spent a week on the road. Several other small groups have drifted in since then.
It was from two of these that we heard rumours of Uther's death, but no more than rumours, as I have said. We have had no confirmation."
I had been staring into the fire as he spoke, unwilling to let him see the expression in my eyes. Across the fire from me, the woman Ludmilla sat motionless, and I could feel her eyes upon me. Now I looked up and spoke, hearing the deadness in my voice.
"Uther is dead, Luke. I burned his body myself. He met three armies in that trap, not two. There was one ahead of him that he had been harrying and thought to catch, but Lot's main force was there, too, waiting for him, and a third rabble of Hibernians came up behind him. I was there, but not before it was over. I had been trying to catch up to him, to warn him, but I came too late. The carnage was complete, but Uther had escaped with something less than a thousand men, mainly his own Pendragons, pursued by Lot. I followed the sign of their running fight for days and saw too many corpses of men from Camulod. Then one day I found Gulrhys Lot hanged from a tree. I don't know how he died, or who killed him, but he is dead, nonetheless. I cut him down and burned him, too. Uther was killed the day after that, early in the morning, surprised as he and the remnants of his party were breaking camp."
I stopped suddenly, on the point of telling him about Ygraine of Cornwall and the child, but acutely aware again of the woman sitting listening on the other side of the fire. During the pause that ensued, neither of them showed any awareness of my sudden reticence, or if they had noticed it, they had evidently attributed it to an emotional reaction to the tale I had to tell. Lucanus broke the silence.
"How did you find him?"
"I was told where to look, by the man who killed him." His eyes widened but he said nothing. "Do you remember Derek of Ravenglass?" He nodded, his eyes widening even more. "Well, it was Derek who killed Uther, although at the time, and until I confronted him and told him so, he had no idea the man he had killed was Uther."
"And?" Lucanus was watching me closely. "Did you kill Derek?"
I opened my mouth to answer him, but nothing came out. Finally, I broke his gaze and turned my eyes back to the flames. "No," I grunted. "I did not. I was sick of killing and of death by that time. Ravenglass told me he had killed Uther in battle, not knowing who he was. The killing was impersonal. The only thing that distinguished Uther in his eyes was the size of him. They were both of a size and build, you'll recall. He took Uther's armour for his own use. He was wearing it when I caught up with him. That's how and why I caught up with him."
"You thought he was Uther."
"Aye."
"So the two of you did not even fight?"
"That's what I said."
"No, you said you had not killed him. You might have fought him and shown clemency."
"Aye, you're right, I might. But we did not even fight. The clemency I showed was to myself."
Lucanus eyed me in silence for a time, mulling over what I had said, and then shifted to a more comfortable spot on his mossy bed. "I believe you," he murmured, "and it was merited . . . I have great hopes for you, Caius Merlyn Britannicus. But tell me, what was it that convinced you Derek of Ravenglass spoke the truth—that in fact he had no idea of Uther's identity?"
I glanced at him sharply. "Why would you ask me that?"
"Why would I not? Uther Pendragon was your dearest friend, apart from being close kin, your first cousin. Was he not?" The barest hesitation had prefaced that final question and I knew it related to the friendship rather than the blood kinship. I also knew it portended an awakening suspicion in Luke's questing mind about my reasons for seeking out my cousin, but I chose to ignore it as he went on. "It seems to me you would demand proof of Derek of Ravenglass that this killing was, in fact, a simple battle casualty, rather than the premeditated killing of a notorious enemy leader."
I looked away again. "I needed no such proof. It was there in his face and in his words. I recognized the truth as he spoke it."
"Hmm. How?"
"Damnation, Luke, what do you mean, how? He told me what had happened that morning and I believed him."
"How so? Don't be angry with me, Cay. I'm not trying to vex you. I have no doubt of the truth of what you're telling me, but I must confess I am extremely curious. The Caius Britannicus I've known in the past would have killed his cousin's killer out of hand, merely for wearing Other's armour, before the fellow had a chance to say a word. Is that not so?"
"Hmmph."
"So? Something must have given you pause. Something stopped you. What was it?"
"Could you bring yourself to believe it might have been the blood through which I had been wading for days? I told you I had seen enough of death and killing by then."
He ignored my sarcasm. "Yes, I could, Cay, had the victim of his killing been anyone else in the world. But not Uther Pendragon."
I tore my gaze away from the fierce centre of the fire and stood up to face the woman across the fire, waiting in silence until my eves had adjusted to the change in light and I could see her clearly. Finally, the dots in front of my eyes subsided and I gazed into her eyes, clearing my throat uncomfortably. She returned my gaze openly and forthrightly, her face a portrait of dignity and calm serenity.
"Lady Ludmilla, I have no wish to insult you. Lucanus is my closest friend, normally far more astute at sensing the discomfort of others than he has shown himself tonight. But he is being obdurate and inquisitive and so I must be forthright. I simply may not speak of this matter in your presence, or in the presence of any other, and for that I ask your forgiveness. The words I have to say are for his ears alone, to be delivered at another time and in another place. That has nothing to do with you, but solely with me and my need to keep my own counsel on this matter." I knew I sounded pompous and I hated the awareness, but I could think of no other words. I turned back to Lucanus who sat gaping at me in astonishment. "Now, my inquisitive, curiosity-driven persecutor, may we change the topic?"
He jumped as though stung. "Oh, of course, by all means." His eyes went immediately to Ludmilla. "My dear," he said, "I can't begin to say how—"
Ludmilla, however, forestalled him, rising to her feet and leaning forward to look into the leather pot that still bubbled merrily over the fire. "Master Lucanus," she said, "you have done nothing to regret. I understand perfectly what Commander Merlyn means, and I am not offended. But this stew is ready. Now, how do we remove it from the bag into our bowls?"
A simple problem, easily solved: we used the smallest of the four metal bowls as a dipper to fill the others.
We ate thereafter in a suddenly easy, companionable silence, broken only by light exchanges as we replenished our bowls until the boiling bag would yield NT more. Ludmilla ate as much as we did, and I watched her closely from time to time, seeing the way her strong, white teeth stripped the hare meat from its bones, and admiring the lines of her neck as she tipped her head back to drain the last delicious broth from her bowl. In all the time it took us to consume the stew, I did not see Lucanus cast as much as a glance in her direction, other than when she replenished his bowl, but my own eyes returned to her constantly. I knew I had never seen her before, yet her name sounded strangely familiar to me, suggesting that I should indeed know who she was. Ludmilla was a common enough name. I had heard it many times. But hard as I tried, I could not remember ever having actually met anyone called Ludmilla.
Finally I could suffer my curiosity no longer. We had finished eating, and Lucanus had stretched out comfortably by the fire. Each of us had scrubbed out our bowls with earth and then gone individually to rinse the vessels clean in the stream. Ludmilla, the last to do so, came back to the fireside and bade us a good night, but I stopped her as she began to turn away towards her shelter beneath the fir bough.
"Ludmilla, before you go, tell me, please, who you are and where you came from. Lucanus treats you with an air of long acquaintance, yet I cannot remember having seen you before today, and I am sure I could not have forgotten you had our paths crossed."
She stopped, looking
at me with the beginnings of a smile on her face. "Oh, we have met, Commander Merlyn, many times."
"We have? Where?"
Now her smile broadened and she nodded her head. "In Camulod, in your aunt's house."
"In my . . ." and then my memory stirred. "You are my aunt's Ludmilla?"
"Of course, if by that you mean I am part of your aunt's household. She has been very kind to me, considering we are only distantly related."
"Related? How? What do you mean? Are you telling me that we two are kin?"
"No, not you and I. I am second cousin to Uther." Her face darkened for a moment and then cleared again, as though a shadow had passed over it. "I mean I was. . . but you and I are not related."
I had risen to my feet. "But. . . how can that be? How could I not know you? You have been in Camulod, in my aunt's household, for years. I've heard her speak of you many times. But you are too . . . Your youth surprises me. I had thought Ludmilla to be older, much older. Are there two of you?"
"No." Her smile was sweet, mocking, I chose to think. "I am the only one, but otherwise you are correct. I have been with your aunt for more than five years now."
"But how could we never have met, and how would I have been unaware of your relationship to Uther?"
Now she laughed aloud, a sound of tinkling, yet resonant silver bells. "Commander, most of that time you did not even know Uther! You were not yourself."
I glanced at Lucanus, hoping for some assistance there, but he lay silent, hands clasped behind his head, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the fire. I waved my arm feebly towards the stump on which she had been seated earlier.
"Please, sit again for a moment and help me to understand this. I feel extremely foolish."
"Without reason." She moved back and sat across from me and for the space of heartbeats I stood gazing down at her, perplexed, until she continued. "Will you not sit, too, Commander Merlyn? You are too tall for me to gaze up at without straining my neck." There was still laughter in her voice, I thought, mockery in her eyes. I looked around me for my seat, feeling awkward. When I was seated, she spoke again, no trace of raillery in her voice.