by Jack Whyte
"And what does Liam have to say about that? It is his galley, after all; his gift for his own daughter."
Athol sat straighter, squaring his shoulders.
"That is what I wanted to discuss with you, the night of our Council gathering, when you fell sick. Because of the lack of time, I have proceeded in the hope that you will take no ill of my suggestions and the arrangements I have made without your knowledge." He smiled briefly, a swift, wintry lightening of his sombre face. "Much has occurred while you lay ill."
"Hmm. I had noticed some of it," I murmured, thinking of Donuil and his evident, newfound love. "Tell me."
"Liam will go with you to Britain. No, let me finish!" I swallowed the retort that sprang to my mouth. "So, too, will Donuil and Shelagh. Those two will be wed. Liam and I had decided on that long since, when Donuil first went away, but now the pair of them have arrived at that decision on their own."
"I guessed at that," I told him. "But this of Liam going to Britain sounds foolish. Why, and to what end? What would he do in Britain?"
"He would live, safe under your protection, as will my grandson. I have no confidence that I could say the same were he to stay behind, here in my lands, with enemies the like of which we face swarming all over. Liam Twist- back is no warrior, but beyond doubt he is the most valuable of all my counselors, his wealth aside. He has abilities and skills no other of my people can provide: the breeding—the selective, skillful breeding—of livestock; the organizing of regular, useful traffic between our outposts in the northern isles . . . We think, the mass of us, in terms of warfare and of conquest as a means to ensure our safety to raise our families and live our lives as simply as we can. Liam thinks in terms of trade and the means of improving life. I can't afford to lose those strengths of his, not when we are on the very brink of needing them more than ever before, in our new home."
"I understand that, Athol, but why send him to Britain? Why not directly to your new holdings in the north?"
He inhaled, then smiled again, without mirth. "Because they are so new. Some of our people are already living there, as you know; some, but nowhere near enough. And their life is harsh, far harsher than here, where at least we know the land and its problems. There in the northeast, everything is different. The islands are mountainous, bare on the high slopes, the valley choked with forests. The earth is fertile, though, in places, but such places have to be first cleared, then broken to the plough by hand, and shelter from the weather has to be built by hand, of stone and sod. Such work does not yet come easily to our men."
"What about creatures? Game, and the like?"
"Deer, on most islands, wolves, bears; goats and some mountain sheep on the heights. Very few cattle, and those only on the largest of the isles. And you have placed your finger on the need for Liam's skills. Donuil steered my thinking, when he told me of your troubles with your horses, the difficulty of sending them by sea. We face the same problems. We have shipped very few beasts with our people. Now, with this war threatening us, our cattle here are at grave risk and we'll lose most of them no matter what the outcome. That is why I have decided to do what I must, if you will grant your aid. Liam's breeding stock, his prime animals, goats, sheep and cattle, are too valuable to risk losing. If we are to save them, we must ship them out, soon. To do that, we'll have to build vessels to carry them, and now that can be done, using Liam's small galley as a model. But no matter how quickly we build, the winter storms will be upon us before they can set out, and the journey to the northeast through winter seas would be impossible. Far safer, I thought, though still hazardous, to ship the beasts across the narrower sea to your lands—to some part of your holdings close by the sea, where no one lives, and where Liam Twistback can perform his wonders breeding new stock. His closeness to the sea will mean my galleys can remain in touch with him and you. Then, when the weather changes, not next year but the following one, my galleys can remove the young stock in safety, shipping them north to where our people are. Do you follow me?"
I nodded. "Aye, and it makes good sense." I drew a deep breath. "Would Liam join you in the north eventually?"
"Of course. As soon as we are settled and the wars are done. I'll need his counsel then far more than I need it even now, providing I'm still alive. And even if I'm dead by then, my folk will need him."
"And what of Donuil and Shelagh? What plans have you in mind for them?"
Athol grinned this time. "Think what you ask, man! What plans does any man, king or father, dare make for a newly lovestruck pair? Donuil is your man above all. What was the word? Adjutant? He speaks of being your adjutant some day. I asked him what that meant and what he told me mystified me, and yet, for all my lack of understanding, I found myself approving of the notion. He will learn much that is unknown to us in Eire, and his ward, my grandson, will learn thereby from him." He paused, and then his tone became almost musing. "Apart from that," he said, "young people being what they are, Donuil and Shelagh will have sons. It would be good for our young High King to have cousins to grow up with, don't you think?"
I nodded, pleased by the thought, and then considered all else he had said.
"Athol," I said, eventually, "I can see no objections to your scheme, providing we can have the agreement of Uther's people. It's their land you'll be on, not mine. Camulod lies too far in from the sea to suit your needs."
"Will that be possible, to gain such agreement?"
I thought about that. "It ought to be simply done. None of their people live there, south of Glevum, and the town itself lies ruined. Their relationship with Camulod has always been as allies. I knew most of the elders, when Uther's father was alive, though I have not set foot in the Pendragon lands since Uther became king. I'll visit them again when I return, and seek their agreement, based upon your own promise and mine that Liam's presence will be but a short one—two or three years."
He nodded and stood up. "No more than that. And now I have to meet with Finn and Connor. My thanks, Caius Merlyn. You'll have no cause for regrets in years to come."
"I don't doubt that, King Athol. I, too, should be abroad now. I've been too much out of touch these past few days. I need to inform my men of what's afoot and ready them for the journey home. You have not told them anything, I presume?"
"Nothing at all. No one has. I forbade mention of it until I should have the time to speak with you. You might have refused me, after all . . ."
"What about Donuil and the others?"
"Oh, they all know, and are already making their preparations to depart. The woman Turga, whom you brought to Connor that first day, is still the baby's nurse, ferociously attached to the child. She is a changed woman from the half-witted creature that was led ashore from Connor's galley. She is comely now, and at peace in her mind, still young enough to bear more children of her own. Food and rest, some kindness from our own, and great love for the child she suckles have made a new being out of her. She will go with you, too. It seems to me the morning tide the day after tomorrow might not be too soon."
"It is very soon, Athol."
"Aye, but our enemies could well be about our ears before then. As it is, every day free from attack surprises me. Still, most of our people are here now, safe behind our walls, their villages abandoned. The swine of Garn and MacNyall will be hard put to stamp us out."
"You think they might succeed?"
Athol smiled and grasped my arm. "That, my friend, lies in the dominion of the gods. But I intend to remind those same gods where their loyalties should lie. We shall meet again someday, you and I, when this is over."
I walked with him to the door and watched him walk away, escorted on either side by Fingael and big Cullum, who had been outside together, awaiting him. As he went, I wondered what the future might hold and whether he and I would ever meet again, and then my thoughts focused on Finn, who had not acknowledged my presence as I emerged from the hut with his father. That young man was no friend of me or mine, no matter how his father felt. They disappea
red from view around the corner of another hut, and I re-entered mine, flexing my right arm against the pressure of my left fist and thinking I would have little time for exercise or training in the days that lay ahead. I called through the open window to Dedalus, who was practising formation manoeuvres with the rest of our companions in the grassy space behind our camp. While he made his way towards me, I thought briefly about the woman Turga, young Arthur's nurse, whose name I had not known. I had forgotten her completely, assuming that she had served her purpose and been released somehow, though where, and to what end, I could not imagine when I brought my mind to it. Now I realized that I would not have known her had I seen her, which led me to assume that I must have, at some time during my stay here. I resolved to visit her and take her measure, since she was as important to the child Arthur as he was to me. And then Ded entered and our preparations for departure from Eire began.
I told him briefly about the tenor of what Athol and I had decided, and was only mildly surprised that he listened solemnly and merely nodded when I had finished, accepting all I had said without demur. Our discussion thereafter was equally brief, the subject matter being simple and soon dealt with; having decided to return to Britain, there was little for us to do in preparation. Athol's people were the ones who would have to make the necessary arrangements. It merely remained to us to advise our own men and those few others who would travel with us, to pack our possessions, and to present ourselves on the wharf at the appointed time on the chosen day.
As soon as Dedalus left, I draped myself in my heavy cloak and went looking for the woman Turga, determined to set my neglect of her aright and to thank her for her assistance in saving the baby Arthur. Even as I phrased that thought, however, I recognized its towering inadequacy. She alone it was who had saved the baby's life, nourishing him from her teats. All of us who cared for the child were forever in her debt, for the strongest man among us would have been powerless to save young Arthur's life, lacking her contribution. And I had ignored her completely since my arrival here in Eire.
I walked cautiously at first upon leaving my hut, recalling my weakness of the previous day, but I was soon striding confidently, exulting in the growing awareness that my incapacity seemed to have disappeared completely overnight. I saw Connor's wife, Margaret, standing by the open door of her house, talking with another woman, and I made my way directly to her. She blushed deep red and smiled at me nervously as I approached and stopped, and remembering how agonizingly shy she was when faced with strangers, I smiled and nodded amiably as I greeted her, inquiring slowly and with great courtesy if she knew where I might find the woman Turga. Her eyes immediately flew wide in confusion and she darted a glance towards her companion, but before she could say anything, the other turned to me, meeting my gaze boldly, almost defiantly, as though challenging me.
"I am Turga. What do you wish of me?"
The words were strange-sounding, but intelligible, a rough blend of the local Celtic tongue of Cornwall and the liquid, rippling Erse of Athol's people, and I realized that Turga, in her few months here among strangers, had adapted to their ways and to their language more aptly than my own Latin- speaking soldiers could have. But that awareness was swept aside even as it occurred to me, in the face of the new realisation that swept me immediately afterwards. My shock was so great that for several moments I stood gaping like a fish, bereft of words or any kind of sane reaction. I had known I could not remember what she looked like, but I would never have recognised this woman who faced me now as the half-mad wretch I had found keening by her murdered child in front of her ruined house. This woman was a virago, tall and strong, with a commanding presence and a haughty, truculent air about her. She carried her head high and her breasts were proud and thrusting—full of milk, I realized belatedly, as I felt my eyes drawn to them and found myself unable to resist the impulse to stare at them. She stood gazing at me directly, making no move to avert her eyes or her body, or to assist me in my confusion. Finally I found my tongue and looked her straight in the eye.
"Forgive me," I said, speaking in her own tongue, almost stammering in my discomfort, cursing myself for not even knowing how to address her. "I did not know . . . I came to thank you . . . for the boy."
A tiny frown ticked between her brows and her pale blue eyes narrowed.
"What do you mean, thank me? What did I do?"
"You saved his life."
"Oh, that." Her tone said that was insignificant. "Why now?"
"Why—?" The astonishment on my face must have been eloquent, for she took pity on me, although her voice remained heavy with hostility.
"That was months ago, and you came here days ago. Why do you seek me now?"
Poor Margaret was hovering in an agony of apprehension, her eyes flickering from one to the other of us as if afraid we might quarrel and come to blows there on her doorstep. I took a half step backwards and came to attention, bringing my clenched right fist to my left breast in a crisp, military salute.
"I was at fault in that, Domina," I said, speaking easily now that I had begun. "I should have come first to you, to give you my thanks, and those of my people, for your services to the child who is my heir. Without you, he would have died where we found him, starving among helpless men whose food was useless to him. We could not have saved his life, for all our so- called strength and power. You alone did that, and for that service I, and all my people, will be eternally grateful. That should have been my message to you, directly and in person, on the day we first arrived. That it was not so is something I shall always regret, since it reflects an ingratitude that was not really there. I know not what I was thinking of, to be so inconsiderate and uncivil. . . so ill-mannered . . . but I have no excuse. I can only ask your forgiveness and forbearance, and I stand here now to do precisely that."
As I spoke, I had watched the expression on her face change from haughtiness to puzzlement, then to a stirring anger as she began to think I was mocking her, and then finally to one of. . . what? It was not disdain, nor was it scorn, rather it was a combination of skepticism and barely disguised impatience with such foolishness. And still the small frown creased the center of her brows. Margaret, in the meantime, merely gazed at me wide-eyed with amazement at my sudden fluency.
"Hmm!" My mind scrambled to assign a description to Turga's grunt, but before I could define it, she spoke on. "You'll want to see him, I suppose, since he's your heir?" There was only the slightest emphasis on the last word, and once again, she left me wondering what her tone entailed. I nodded, suddenly afraid to say any more.
"If I may," I managed to say.
She turned away to Margaret. "I'll come back later, and I'll bring the salve." She glanced back at me, over her shoulder. "Come, then."
I followed her wordlessly to a hut three buildings down from where Margaret stood, still watching us, and she bustled inside and disappeared, leaving the door open behind her for me to follow. I stopped just beyond the threshold, blinking my eyes against the sudden darkness, and then, as my eyes adjusted, I saw the child's crib, a plain wooden affair on rockers, close by the fire that smoldered in the hearth. The woman was bent over in front of the fire, stirring the fuel to angry life, and a shower of sparks whirled upwards into the rough stone flue.
"He's asleep," she said, over her shoulder. "You can look at him, but don't wake him. He's not due for feeding for another hour."
I hitched my cloak back over my shoulders and crossed to the crib, where I bent forward, peering down at the baby who slept there. He was naked, except for a breechclout, and the unmistakable smell rising from it told me it needed to be changed. Turga's sigh startled me because it was so near. She had approached behind me and stood gazing down with me.
"He's a smelly little beast," she said. "A typical boy, all shit and shouting. Here, sit."
She held a three-legged stool in one hand, and now she placed it beside me. I mumbled a word of thanks and lowered myself to the seat, and she moved away again, back to the f
ireplace, where she piled several blocks of some kind of fuel on the fire.
"What is that stuff?" I asked. She twisted to look around at me, then grunted.
"Peat, they call it. They burn it all the time, here. They dig it up from the ground and dry it, then burn it. When I first came here, I couldn't stand the smell of it. Now I barely notice it. If he smells too rank, you can come and sit over here." She had a strange voice, for a woman, deep and gruff, and yet I sensed a tenderness there that her gruffness denied.
"No," I said, "I'm fine here. Do you . . . do you know who I am?"
The look she threw me was utterly sardonic. "Merlyn," she said. "Merlyn of Camulod, no? Like Uther of Camulod. Is he kin of yours?"
"He was," I replied. "He's dead. But he was never Uther of Camulod. He was Uther of Cambria, Uther Pendragon. He seldom came to Camulod."
She stood staring at me now, her face cold, her voice flint-hard. "Seldom came to Cornwall, either, the black whoreson, but he killed my man and my children, and Uther of Camulod was the only name I ever heard him called. I hope he died badly."
"He did," I said, chastened by her hatred of my cousin. "He died the day I first met you."
Now she frowned, clearly perplexed. "What are you saying? I never saw you before you came here."
"You did, Turga, but you don't remember it. I found you kneeling on the ground outside your house in Cornwall, mourning your family. Your baby was newborn. That's why I thought of you when we found Arthur starving. His mother was dead, and I knew your baby was dead. He needed milk and you needed to give suck. That's why we came back for you. You have no memory at all of that?"
She shook her head, her frown deepening. "No . . . or only very vaguely. The first memory I have is of feeding the child—this child, Arthur—by a fire on a beach. I didn't know where or who I was. Later, when we had crossed the sea, I remembered my own family, my man and my little daughter—" Her eyes filled with sudden tears and she wiped them away with the back of her hand, but her face remained expressionless. She drew a great, deep, sudden breath. "So, this boy . . ." She waved her hand towards the crib. "He is your heir, you say. Is that the word? What does it mean? Is he your son?"