by Jack Whyte
"The child is very special, Sir King," I began. "He is unique; bred to a purpose, and of the blood of many kings and champions. He is your grandson, and the blood of your people runs in his veins. But he is also the grandson of Ullic Pendragon, King of the Cambrian Celts, and by his mother's marriage, at least, he can lay claim to Cornwall, once he is of age. He also claims the heritage of Camulod, its builders and its kings, though they sought not to be kings in name: Caius Britannicus and Publius Varrus—noble names of ancient lineage, springing direct from earliest Roman times. His destiny is greatness, for he will be king of all Britain, Ard Righ, High King of all the land, uniting its peoples to withstand the growing influx of the Germanic Saxon hordes." I had spoken forcefully, willing my tongue to articulate without the slightest pause, unwilling to permit the expostulation I thought must cut me short in mid-delivery, but the king had shown no sign of wishing to interrupt. Now I stopped, curious, and waited for a reaction.
Athol stooped from the waist and picked up his clay cup from where it had lain untouched for a long time. He sipped at the contents pensively before moving to stand beside me in front of the fire, gazing down into the glowing coals. Donuil and Connor looked at each other, but neither spoke. I turned again, shoulder to shoulder now with the king, and stared with him into the fire.
"An impressive destiny," he said, eventually. "High King of Britain. A name like that brings its own dangers and breeds enemies from stones."
"I am aware of that, Sir King."
"Aye." He drank again, then spoke over his shoulder. "Donuil, you have been there, in this place Camulod. I ask you as my son, a Prince of the Gaels of Eire. Is this claim true, and could it come to pass as Master Merlyn says?"
"Aye, Father, I believe it. It will come to pass."
"Will? Not could, or might? You are that sure?"
Now I heard Donuil rise for the first time, and as I glanced his way I saw him extend a hand to help his brother to his feet, after which the two moved closer to us. As they approached, Donuil said, "Sure enough to have decided that my own destiny lies with Merlyn and the child. I will return with them to Britain when they go, to play my part in whatever the fates hold stored for them."
The king glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised sardonically. "If they go," he said. "If I permit them to leave. I am king here, remember, and the child is my grandson, all that I have remaining of his mother, whom I loved."
I was watching closely, hearing the threat and its implications, but I was surprised to see Donuil smile easily, undismayed by his father's words.
"And why would you forbid it, Father? Had the child been born legitimately, it would have been Lot's heir, bearing his blood, and I have heard your opinions regarding Lot and his true worth. Nevertheless, the child would have been king of Cornwall and you'd have been well pleased. Now he has no taint of Lot about him, he has a claim to the Cornish kingdom, and he has, besides, the promise of all Britain, certainly of Camulod and Cambria . . . High King of Alban, Father! The blood of our clan will flourish with his prosperity."
"Aye, or suffer with his death. You are foolhardy, it appears to me, my son, in this decision. It will bar you from all chance of inheritance here in your own right."
Donuil's smile grew even wider. "What chance is that, Father? I am your youngest son and the pole of claims above mine reaches high. I'll never be king here after you are gone, and you will admit that, if you are pressed. Besides, it might even be less perilous fighting in Britain than it would be here in Eire. Arthur, the child, has a chance of gaining the Ard Righ's chair there. No man will ever have that chance in Eire, by your own admission."
The king pursed his lips, his eyes expressionless. "And my familial blessing? You would forfeit that?"
The smile disappeared from Donuil's face immediately. "No, Father, I would not in truth, if it could be avoided. I would hope to leave with your goodwill."
"Hmm." Athol turned his gaze on Connor. "And you, Lord Connor, what think you of this?"
Connor had been listening, his eyes on me most of the time. Now he coughed slightly. "I do not know what I should think, Father. I have heard more here than I ever thought to know."
"Your brother here trusts Master Merlyn more than some of his own kin. Have you anything to say to that?"
Connor grimaced and glanced at Donuil. "His good sense surprises me. He has hidden it well, in the past." He looked back to me, his gaze now openly speculative. "I agree with him, too, which also surprises me. I believe Master Merlyn, in spite of all my wishes to deny him. Ygraine is dead, I now accept, as I accept the fact that I have mourned her without knowing. So is our sister Deirdre. But if he won Deirdre as he has won Donuil and almost my unwilling self, there may be more to him even than meets the eye, and that's impressive enough."
I said nothing, sensing that it was not yet time for me to speak. Now the initiative passed again to Athol. He swung away and sought my cup, then handed it to me, and when he spoke again he had lapsed back into the courtly language he used as king.
"So be it. You said you thought this discussion should be private, Master Merlyn, and you were correct. Let it remain so. None but we four shall know of its occurrence, for now. Are we agreed?" Connor, Donuil and I all muttered our agreement. "Good, then here is what has formed in my mind while we have talked. You spoke of the boy's destiny, Master Merlyn. Destiny, I think, is a wondrous but perilous thing for those selected to attain it. Most men live and die without ever hearing or thinking of it, for Destiny is not the truck of ordinary mortals. Destiny attains the stature of godhead, of immortality. It gives rise to legend. It reeks of the whims of gods, goddesses and priests. Those who speak of such things, and there are many of them, mostly priests, would have us believe it will come, to those touched by it, without effort. I adopt a more hard-headed view of it, when I think of it at all. I find I prefer to believe it should take hard work to achieve. A child of Destiny, a High King, must be taught, it seems to me, how to be first a man that other men will respect and admire, then a chief whom they will follow, then a king who can command them in peace as well as in war, and only then a High King, who can impose his vision on a people. Do you agree?"
"Completely."
"I thought you would. You have thought, then, on this training?"
"Deeply."
"And what have you decided? How will you see to it the child is trained?"
"At my own hand, Sir King. I have made up my mind, long since, to give my life to the training of him, but I believe it must be in Britain, where he is to rule."
"You see no hope for him in Eire, then."
"No." I shook my head. "Not in this matter. He must be taught, from earliest boyhood, to perceive the land he rules: the people in it, its problems and its requirements. Afterwards, armed with a clear understanding of those things, and a sense of his place at the head of them, he might have some chance of succeeding in the task ahead of him, which is to combine those peoples, and the solutions to the problems that confront them, and to weld them into a common folk."
"You see him as a lawgiver?"
"Aye, among other things, but first as a soldier. A leader, as you have said, and a champion."
"Hmm. Well, you can train him in that, at least, but what of the other things?"
I shrugged, finding it easy now to smile. "The rudiments are all in place. He will learn the structure of a civilized society in Camulod, taught by its finest minds, and he will learn his place within that structure, responsibility and leadership. There, too, he will learn of weapons and of warfare, of cavalry, and of tactics and strategy. He will also study the basic elements of education, literacy, logic and polemics. He will study metallurgy and engineering, and his teachers will be the finest we can provide."
"And who will supervise these teachers?"
"I will."
"Hmm." Athol looked away again, staring into the fire, and then he spoke, announcing the decision he had reached. "So be it. My trust in you shall be no less than m
y sons'. You shall return to Britain, Caius Merlyn, with my grandson, at winter's end—as soon as the weather on the seas has moderated to allow you safe passage. Donuil will accompany you as my appointed guardian to the child. Connor, whose galleys dominate the seas between our two shores, will act as liaison between you and us, carrying information and, should the need arise, assistance from one to the other. We will discuss more details in the time ahead. For now . . ." He turned to face his sons. "You two will please me greatly if you leave us. I wish to speak to my goodson Merlyn of his wife, my daughter Deirdre, and your presence may hinder him from speaking with the depth I seek." The term he used to speak of me was not "good son" but rather "goodson," a single word, carrying connotations of family attachments. I had heard it used before, during the day that had passed, hut never beyond the land of the Scots. Donuil and Connor excused themselves and took their leave, and I was left alone with Athol, who moved directly to refresh our cups while I threw fresh wood on the fire at his request.
We talked far into the night, the king and I, by the brightness of his new candles and the leaping flames of the fire. I talked to him of his daughter and of my love for her, omitting nothing that I could recall. I spoke to him of her athletic abilities, of how they had amazed me at the outset when I realized that I had never known a woman or a girl so strong and supple, or so fleet and self-assured in matters of sport and physical prowess. I spoke, too, of my own frustration in never having learned how she came by such skills, and in never having learned to "speak" with her, using my hands the way she and her brother did. I told him of my youthful, arrogant belief that I could leave her for a while and then return to find her and the child she would bear me and to take up at the leaving point and spend my life thereafter pleasing her. And I told him of the times I spent with her and of the love I bore her, how it grew from nothingness into the fire that blazed to become the core of my existence, then was extinguished, utterly and dev- astatingly, for years, to spring back blazing, phoenix-like, into full life with all the agonies of true love lost and long unmourned. I talked of the home we shared in my tiny hidden vale and spoke to him of how she had felt, nestled in my grasp and how she tasted on my lips; of how I held her sheltered in my arms; of how she succoured me when I was weary and in pain; and of how she glowed with health and life and fullness when I last beheld her, advanced in pregnancy. And last, I spoke to him of how I found myself, beside her grave, close by the darkened waters of the little mere in Avalon, and of the agonies I suffered by that grave, tasting for the first time a lifetime of guilt and grief and loss.
Through all of this, King Athol sat and listened, speaking no word, allowing me to pour out my heart and soul into his ears and understanding. He was the perfect listener for my tale, because I knew that he, too, had mourned for my lost love, not once, but time and again, and was doing so now afresh. He listened minutely, absorbing every word, every flicker of expression that crossed my face, bearing the pain I suffered during this, my first complete mourning for my beloved love and for the nameless, faceless child she had prepared for me.
Only long after I had fallen silent, emptied of everything, did he speak, and then he asked of Uther. Did I still believe that Uther had violated and finally killed my love?
Exhausted as I was from purging myself, I thought long before answering, and when I did I spoke with a new confidence, finding a certainty inside my soul that told me of Uther's innocence in all I had condemned him for so ruthlessly. No, I told Athol, I did not believe that Uther was at blame. His guilt had been in my mind alone. That led me to speak of my own father, Picus Britannicus, and his unwavering sense of truth and justice; of his staunch belief in according the benefit of doubt in the absence of absolute proof of guilt. Of his belief, in other words, of the essential good in man, and of the enormity of those dark passions that could lie in all of us, capable of overwhelming anyone, but not without great struggle. I explained how he had brought me to doubt Uther's guilt, and of how that had sufficed until I fell in battle, to awaken to myself years later and find that, once again, my love had been struck down by an unknown assailant.
From there, I went on to describe my pursuit of Uther through the battlefields of Cornwall, revealing to the king, for the first time, the story I had heard from Popilius Cirro, our veteran primus pilus, concerning the capture of Ygraine by Uther and the liaison that had flourished between the two, resulting in the birth of the child Arthur. Athol listened in silence to all of this, making no judgment either of his daughter or my cousin, although at one point he uttered a single, scathing remark consigning his erstwhile ally and goodson Gulrhys Lot to eternal perdition. I ended my tale with the culmination of my hunt, when I found myself face to face, not with Uther Pendragon, but with another who wore Uther's clothes and armour. The circle was complete, and we sat silent together until the fire died down one last, long time. Finally, the king stood up.
"It is late, Goodson," he said, "and I have learned much of you this night. Thank you for telling me the things you have, and know that I consider my poor daughter Deirdre fortunate to have known you, and you fortunate to have found the happiness you had, fleeting though it may have been. Few men are blessed with love such as you have depicted here to me tonight. Get you to sleep now. Tomorrow you must show your cavalry to all my folk. This night, however, you have shown your self to me, and I shall regard it highly the remainder of my life." He dropped his hand onto my shoulder. "Sleep well. And sleep sound, for you deserve kind sleep."
XIV
The following morning, soon after sunrise, Athol sought me out again, and once more we sequestered ourselves in his "sometime" house, free from interruptions and the daily commerce of the settlement. He had thought further, he told me, on what we had talked of the night before, and had lain awake almost until the sky had begun to pale with the new day. His bearing gave no hint of sleeplessness, for all that, reminding me of Luke's observation that the aging process differs in each of us. It evidently affected Athol only superficially if, at his age, he could so easily forego a night of sleep.
He began by questioning me on Britain, particularly on the lands that lay between Camulod and Glevum, where we had met with his envoys, Feargus and Logan. He asked about the nature of the countryside; whether it was densely wooded like his own territory, or more open to the sun. He wished to know about the people: Was the territory populated? If so, by whom? Did they farm the land? Who claimed the land? He knew it was not Camulodian ground, but to whom, then, did it belong?
I tried to answer all his questions, although I wondered why he would ask such things and asked several questions of my own, inquiring whether he had plans for colonizing Britain. No, he assured me, smiling, all he sought was local knowledge. If his grandson were ever to be living in that place, he felt it fitting to know as much about the region as he could learn. I accepted that and told him that all of the territory around Glevum lay in the Pen- dragon lands, to which Arthur himself was the true heir, and it was clear the information
Soon after the noonday meal I begged leave of him to ready my men and made my way out through the gates of the Scots' stronghold to where my cavalry, such as it was, had already assembled to wait for me. Only Donuil was missing. I had left him behind with his father and the other counselors, charged with the responsibility of explaining the few brief manoeuvres we would be presenting for their amusement. The delegation was an act both of self-preservation and consideration; Donuil's horsemanship was still far from the equivalent of the others', and his participation might have endangered the brief exhibition we were to mount. Besides, I saw no point in making his shortcomings as a cavalryman obvious to his own people. As it was, I felt acutely embarrassed at the paucity of the resources at our disposal in this exercise, and had I been able to conceive of any means of avoiding what lay ahead I would gladly have grasped it. Always a believer in the strength of initial impressions, I felt strongly that there could be no advantage to Camulod or its reputation in presenting a vague sha
dow of its potency. If the thing could not be done right, I saw no benefit to anyone in doing it at all. The thought of eight men attempting to portray the power of Camulod's thousands seemed ludicrous to me. The king, however, had requested a demonstration, and I felt honour bound to indulge him.
My men looked their best, dressed in the finery I had insisted they bring along for formal occasions, and their equipment and armour gleamed in the watery afternoon sunlight. It had rained heavily through most of the morning and I had begun to hope that the day might be too inclement to permit a public gathering, but these hopes were dashed in the late forenoon, when the sun broke through the cloud cover and encouraged great wedges of blue sky to follow it. I saw Dedalus sitting his horse slightly apart from the others, holding the reins of my black, and made my way towards him. There was no formalized order of rank among my companions; all of them were capable of command and each of them had known his fellows too long for such niceties to be necessary. On this occasion, however, Ded seemed to have assumed the lead. I went straight to where he sat, thanking him with a nod as I took my reins and pulled myself up into Germanicus's saddle. He nodded back, indicating the crowd of Scots who had already assembled on the gently sloping meadow outside the walls.
"They're out in force, expecting a spectacle. I hope they won't be disappointed. Eight men won't amount to much of a cavalry charge."
I grinned at him, refusing to allow my face to show how much I shared his misgivings. "Rely on it, old friend, they will be impressed. Bear in mind they have never seen anything like us before. The mere size of our horses is enough to awe them, and their armour, even the best of it, is paltry beside ours. When they see a line of us, leg to leg in formation, charging them at the gallop, they won't even think to count and see that we are only eight. They'll see only force and power, weight and threat, and terror is the only thing they'll feel." I looked him over carefully, from the freshly unpacked and carefully brushed centurion's crest of horsehair bristles on his helmet to the polished silver mountings on his spurred boots. Dedalus wore the crest of a senior centurion, a primus pilus of the Second Augusta Legion, which had served faithfully in Britain for almost four centuries, based in the legionary fortress of Isca Dumnoniorum, now reduced to the sad, dilapidated huddle known merely as Isca. He had never served in the Second Augusta, gone since before his birth, but his great-grandfather had, and the crest had been passed down from him to Dedalus, who wore it with as much pride as had his ancestor. It was dyed to a startling, chalky white and the horsehair bristles projected a full handspan above the crest's silver mounting, which sat across the helmet's crown from side to side, rather than from front to back like a staff officer's. The effect was striking.