The Saxon Shore cc-4

by Jack Whyte

  Each of us glanced sidelong at the other, eyeing the other's weapon. Because of its double curve and triple compound layers of construction, my bow looked bigger and somehow more formidable than Huw's, and my arrows were perhaps a palm's width longer, but I took no satisfaction in that appearance of superiority. Huw's bow, bent and strung, looked graceful and slender, and much shorter than mine, although I knew that was illusion.

  Unstrung, his bow was equal to his own height and was painstakingly carved from a single sapling, the result of years of care and conscientious labour, carefully dried and straightened, worked with heavy linseed oil, then planed and shaved by hand to taper perfectly from its central thickness, which filled up a grown man's palm, to its notched extremities, each the size of a fingertip. My bowstrings were of dried animal gut, stretched wet, then plaited into single strands of great strength. His were of spun-hair twine, braided and waxed. Only our arrows bore comparison, made from straight ash shoots— mine the longer—and fletched with goose feathers, slightly curved, to make the missiles they adorned spin smoothly.

  The sun was behind us on our right, more than halfway down the sky, so that it threw our shadows, long and slanting to the left ahead of us. Huw sniffed and grinned at me. "Ready?"

  "Aye," I murmured. "But yon centre's a massy ring, and close."

  "That's true enough, but none of your boys have hit one yet."

  "Then perhaps what they lack is inspiration?"

  He cocked an eyebrow. "Something smaller, then?"

  "Much smaller," I said with a smile.

  He thought for a moment, then grinned and reached up to his breast, where he unpinned the kind of brooch I had remarked King Athol wearing, although Huw's was much smaller. It was a simple circle of silver, held by a straight pin. The rim was half the width of my small fingernail, its central space as wide as the distance from the tip of my thumb to the first joint. Turning, Huw threw it to the closest bystander, big Powys.

  "Powys," he said. "D'you think your fingers delicate enough to place this thing in the centre of the target there? But mind you don't close the pin! Stick it straight into the target. We'll be putting arrows through the ring and I don't want my fine brooch broken." Few of our young men understood what had been said, but as the giant Powys strode forward and affixed the silver circle to the centre of the first target, a murmur of awe arose around us. When Powys was clear of the line of flight, I turned to Huw with a small nod.

  "Your brooch, your shot."

  He nodded back and raised his bow immediately, hardly seeming to bother taking aim. The bowstring smacked against the heavy leather arm guard that protected his left arm and as it did so the sound of his arrow smacking home echoed it immediately. There was a shout of acclamation, and I saw the feathered end of his shaft slanted across the distant silver circle. The point was buried in, or close to, the ring itself.

  "Fine shot," I said. "Did you hit the brooch?"

  "I hope not, for if I did, there's ruined it is. I missed the target, anyway. I think you could insert a thumb between the arrow and the mark. Make sure you do the same, either in or out. Don't hit the brooch, for 'twas a recent gift from one who'd have the hide off me if she knew how I was using it."

  I smiled and drew the string back to my ear, aware of lack of wind or distraction. As the tip of my arrow crossed the line of my eye, I loosed and watched the shaft speed straight and true, hearing another roar of admiration.

  "That missed, too," I told Huw. "But I think it's closer than yours."

  "Well then, we'll check it. One shaft at a time is all we can try here, for more than that will block the view and endanger the brooch. A clean shattering from a single, well-aimed shot I could live with, but to do so carelessly simply because either one of us could not see clearly would be unforgivable." He raised his voice to Powys, who had remained at the far end of the range. "Powys! Which one was closer?"

  The big man crossed to the target and leaned close to it, measuring carefully, it seemed, before straightening up and pulling out both arrows.

  "Merlyn's," he called back. "But not by much. His to the right and centre, yours to the left and high. I had to use one finger to my thumb's end to mark the difference."

  "Stand away then. The next one's mine." As Powys walked away, Huw nocked another arrow and then froze in the half stoop used by all men who pulled these mighty bows, his eyes fixed on the distant target, his bow arm hanging almost loosely by his side, his right arm bent across his middle, holding the bowstring gently. Long moments he stood there, his concentration absolute, and then he straightened, stepping into his shot, bringing the full strength of his upper body into play as his weapon swung up and he pulled and loosed, again without having seemed to aim. I watched the arrow's flight, marvelling at the big man's coordination and speed of delivery. I knew how good I was, and knew that few men were my equal in this arena. Huw Strongarm, however, was one of those few, and I knew that I could never match his speed and ease. This time I was almost unaware of the cheers coming from the watchers. Huw's shot was closer than his first had been. It might even have pierced the centre. We were too far away to know beyond doubt.

  Drawing a deep breath once, twice and then a third time, blowing the air from my chest so hard that my cheeks puffed out, I nocked, then willed myself to relax and gather my strength as my eye sought and followed the flight of the arrow I would send towards the target. Then, when I knew my eye was true and my mind satisfied, I released the series of rippling moves that would unleash my thunderbolt, leaning into my pull so that I actually pushed the bow stave forward as I brought the taut string back towards my ear. The shot sped clean once more, and I knew Powys's thumbnail would be employed again. This time, however, it was my arrow that lay farther from the mark.

  "One more to decide?"

  I grinned and nodded. "But no more than one. I think you have been practising more than I have."

  "Practising? I don't practise, man. This is what I do!"

  This time, as I watched my opponent prepare for his shot, I listened to the silence around us. Thirty and more grown men all held their breath and watched as I did, enthralled by the rapt attention Huw gave to his task. Again I marvelled at the taut stillness of him, and then at the explosive force as he snapped into motion, seeming to expand simultaneously in all directions as he released the pent-up energy that had sustained his trance. This time big Powys whooped and went capering across to the target, where he peered downward and then spun around, leaping in the air and crying that Huw's shaft was in the ring. I felt the tension drain from me like water.

  "Well done, Huw," I said, meaning it sincerely. "That was a master's shot."

  He looked at me in surprise. "What, you mean you're giving up?"

  "Giving up?" I laughed aloud. "God, man, you pierced the ring! I can't beat that."

  "No, but you could equal it. There's room in there for two."

  "Not if you hit dead centre, and I'd guess you did."

  "No, I hit to the left of centre, almost against the side."

  "How can you know that?"

  "I saw it! I'm not blind, man."

  "By God, then I am, and that's enough for me. You can see so clearly that far away?"

  "Aye. You can't?"

  "No, and I would wager not one other man can, either, except you." I turned back to Powys, who was still standing by the target. "Powys," I shouted. "Where was the hit?"

  "Left of centre. Against the rim," came the reply. I turned again to Huw, my face, I knew, betraying my amazement. But Huw was already shouting to Powys.

  "Is there room in the circle for another shaft?"

  "Aye!"

  Huw looked at me. "Well? Will you shoot, or are you prepared to give up the legend that the Varrus bow is superior to the Pendragon?"

  His tone was jocular, but I knew he spoke in earnest, and the gravity of what he said came home to me. For decades now, the great African bow brought to this country by Publius Varrus had remained a thing of legend. Th
is was the bow that had inspired Cymric the bowyer to build the first Pendragon bow, which Ullic the King himself had been the only man with the strength to pull. From that first bow of yew the rest had sprung, so that over a period of short decades the Pendragon had become the most effective fighting force outside Camulod, the fame of their dread weapons spreading far and wide throughout the South and West. Now, in this confrontation that had begun between two old friends, I saw the challenge clearly. If the Varrus bow were found wanting, then the name of Varrus himself would suffer neglect hereafter. I sighed, a gusty sound of anger and sudden frustration.

  "No, I don't think so, Huw," I answered him, hearing my own voice grating on the words. "Not yet, and not without a fight." I pulled another arrow from the quiver at my shoulder and stepped back to the line, putting my thoughts in order. That was, I found immediately, more easily attempted than achieved. I found myself in the grip of an unreasoning anger, and I knew it would obscure my judgment if I allowed it to persist. Aware of the deep silence that had fallen all around me again, I forced myself to stand motionless and concentrate upon the task at hand. As calmness began to assert itself and my anger faded, I turned away from the mark, glancing at Huw, searching his face for any sign of mockery or scorn. I saw none. He stood motionless, his bow grounded, watching me calmly and without any expression other than the respect due from one opponent to another in a contest of skills.

  I nodded to him and turned again towards the mark, exhaling completely and then breathing deeply in the pattern I had taught myself over the years. And the world around me vanished, to be replaced by a long tunnel that stretched away ahead of me to where a silver circle shone, large and clean- lined, against a field of dun, untreated cloth. As I loosed my shot I knew it was my best ever. I had turned away to Huw before it even hit the mark, aware that the watching crowd yet held its breath, waiting for Powys's verdict. But I knew, and Huw knew, judging by his grin, that my shaft had lodged with his, inside the ring. As we shook hands, the air around us shattered under the noise of the watchers' cheers.

  "So it was meant to be. The Varrus bow has lost nothing with the years, including its master's skills." Huw's admiration was genuine and ungrudging.

  "Had you not said what you did, your victory would have gone uncontested, my friend."

  "I knew that, Merlyn, but I knew, too, that you had not seen it, did I not?"

  "Aye, you're right. It needed to be said. My thanks to you. But why are you here, Huw? Why in Camulod, and since when?"

  He made a wry face. "Since life in our own place became unbearable," he answered, as the throng bore down on us, led by Powys, who brandished Huw's brooch above his head. "We'll talk about it later."

  Once again I found myself surrounded by well-wishers, and it occurred to me that here was a day for interrupted conversations.

  After the sun went down, destroying any hope of further shooting, the recruits were dismissed and dispersed, and Huw and his fellow Celts accompanied Ambrose and me to the refectory, where I prevailed upon one of the presiding cooks to pack up a quantity of foods, both hot and cold, to feed sixteen of us. Ludo, my effeminate old friend from boyhood days, had died some time before, but he had disciplined his staff over the years to accede to any demand that I might make at any time. Then, armed with good food and ale, we sought a firepit by the road outside the walls by the main gate. We found one, manned by some of the recruits who had been with us earlier, and sent them searching elsewhere for a fire, while we sat down to eat and talk. There was a chill nip to the evening air, but most of the men wore cloaks and the day had been pleasant, with more pale, wintry sunshine than showers.

  Conversation was desultory while the food lasted, but Huw was quick to show me his brooch, returned to him by Powys, which had now become a trophy. It bore two small, parallel identical scars where the inside upper rim had been nicked by our arrows, and Huw was immensely proud of it.

  "Look you, Merlyn," he pointed out to me, kneeling beside me and balancing the meat he had crammed inside a wedge of bread precariously on one bent knee while he held the brooch out for my inspection. "If you were to draw crossed lines, splitting the circle in four parts, each arrow's point would pierce above the level cross line, you see?—but exactly the same distance on either side from the vertical, so that the upper edges of the arrowheads have nicked the rim! It looks as though the marks were made a-purpose, doesn't it?" I agreed that it did, gaining great pleasure from his simple excitement, and he went off to share his explanation with the others.

  "He'll get drunk on that brooch for years," Ambrose murmured from where he sat beside me.

  "Well, why not?" I responded, watching Huw's progress. "He's entitled to. That was probably one of the best shots he ever made in his life; I know it was mine. That the two should occur together like that almost goes beyond belief, but fortunately for Huw, he has witnesses aplenty. Now, to business." I turned and faced my brother as squarely as I could when we were seated side by side on the same log. "Where did he and the others come from, and when and why?"

  Ambrose threw his remaining, well-gnawed bone into the fire and wiped his grease-covered fingers on the hem of his tunic before answering, finishing his toilet by scrubbing at his lips with the back of one hand. "Arrived on the day you left," he said. "All fourteen of them together. Frightened the marrow out of the sentinel. He neither saw nor heard them until they spoke to him, right in his ear. They had crawled up on him from behind . . ." He paused, reflecting. "I almost had the fellow charged with dereliction, until I thought the matter through. Obviously such a thing could not have happened had Huw's men not been so thoroughly familiar with our ways and territory, and of course that does nothing to relieve the guard of any fault, but it served to point out one of the many weaknesses in our current system. Had Huw's people been hostile for any reason, possessing the same knowledge, they would have been among us before we knew they were near. So instead of punishing the guard, I embarrassed him by making him explain the whole affair to his companions: how and why he was at fault; what might have happened had these not been friends; where he had been careless; how, exactly how, he would take steps to be more vigilant in times to come. I was merciless on him, but I think the lesson worked. All our guards are more alert now, everywhere. Anyway—" He broke off what he was saying to pick up his ale mug. "Huw says there is much trouble in our dead cousin's Cambrian hills, Brother. Minor, perhaps major wars are being waged over the vacant kingship. Uther had no natural successor, being the last of his direct line, but I gather there is no dearth of secondary claimants; uncles on his mother's side, cousins and a whole host of far-flung relatives."

  "Hmm. I thought that might be the case, although I must admit I am surprised to hear you speak of warfare. That kind of war pits brother against brother."

  "Aye, and mother against son, in some instances."

  "So why did Huw's people leave?"

  "Ask him. He thought I was you, when he first saw me, and came right to me. He was much nonplussed to find I did not recognize him." His face broke into a smile. "But he was really stunned when he found I was not you. I made him at ease, for all that, and there were many others around to welcome him and his men. Titus and Flavius both made much of them, and they helped me tremendously in gaining their acceptance. Later, when Huw had come to know me slightly better, he spoke of his reasons for leaving the hills and coming here. Fundamentally, he and his men had been away too long to enable them to form sudden, clear-cut loyalties to any of the contenders in the struggle that they found when they reached home. Uther had been their lord, and they his men. So after spending an entire war against Lot, surviving as a unit, they maintained their unity at home, without committing to one faction or another. And that failure to commit, as I am sure you will already have surmised, bred hatred from all sides. Originally twenty- four, their party was depleted one by one, by stealth and treachery over the course of less than four months, to the point where only fifteen remained alive. Huw decided to come h
ere to save the others, their loyalty transferred from Uther to you as Uther's natural successor."

  "Uther's successor? I have no claim on Uther's kingship!"

  "They said nothing of kingship, Cay. Their talk was all of loyalty and commitment."

  "Ah! Do they know aught of the child Arthur?"

  Ambrose shook his head. "Nothing. I reasoned it was not my place to tell them."

  "Good. I may tell them later, for we will have need of them and their loyalty. Tell me about your school of bowmanship."

  He stretched his legs and rose to his feet, massaging his buttocks, then sat down again, straddling the log so that he faced me directly. "Huw offered to teach some of our men to shoot, and I seized on it. It fitted in perfectly with my design to meld the elements of Camulod's forces into a single entity. I told you about the rift I have discovered between our horsemen and foot- soldiers. At the most fundamental level, a schism—which may be groundless but is nonetheless extremely real—has been created between the two." Again he stopped himself, and I could almost see his mind working as he scanned the words he would use next. "Understand me, Brother, I see little of this stemming from you yourself, but from all I have gathered you have been, albeit unknowingly, part of the problem. When you lay injured, and even afterward, when you were up and about, the guiding hand, the strength and wisdom you had formerly lent to all in Camulod, were sadly lacking. During that time, too, Camulod was at war, and principally under the command of Uther and his staff of officers. Most of those were cavalry, for the simple reason that Uther, when he required the men of Camulod to supplement or complement his Celtic Pendragon, required them urgently, insisting they be capable of moving quickly to prosecute his aims. He took large bodies of our infantry as well, but those served as foot-soldiers always do, slogging through mud and mire and sleeping on the ground in filth and squalor: no wondrous feats recorded of them; no deeds of brilliant daring; no glowing victories. . . no privileges, and no new equipment, whereas the vaunted cavalry received, it appeared, the best of everything.