The Saxon Shore cc-4

by Jack Whyte

  On the day before Connor's unexpected arrival, I had found Arthur in the stables, one of his favourite haunts, despite the fact that almost everyone did everything possible to keep him out of there. On this occasion, as I began to move towards him to pick him up and take him home to Turga, something in his attitude attracted my attention. He was standing in front of Germanicus's stall when I entered, and in the sudden dimness of the stable, blindingly dark after the bright sunshine outside, I had the distinct impression he was holding something up to my horse. Germanicus's head was high up in the air, as though straining away from the lad, and his great eye was rolling in his head. Frowning, I stepped towards them, aware of the tininess of the boy against the enormous size of my large horse, although the lad was outside the stall and therefore in no danger.

  "Arthur, what are you doing?"

  He turned to look at me, and his face broke into one of his great grins. "Mellin," he crowed, and came running towards me, his right hand outstretched. I crouched down and held out my own hand for whatever it was, and he deposited a large frog, bright green with yellow markings, into my open palm. I had seen what it was only moments before I found myself holding it, but it was already too late to withdraw my hand. I swallowed hard and reminded myself that I had held hundreds of the things before, in my own boyhood, and that none of them had ever bitten me or harmed me. Nevertheless, the sensation of the creature sitting there on my palm made my skin crawl.

  "Big, Mellin," the boy said, smiling still, his eyes on the frog.

  "Aye, it is, Arthur. Where did you catch it?" He blinked at me, plainly not understanding. I tried again.

  "Where did it come from, Arthur?" He scratched himself with one fingertip, worrying at a spot below his ribs, his brows knit in fierce concentration, and I knew he was not going to answer me. "Arthur?" He continued to peer at the frog. So did I, and the frog peered back at me, it's great, liquid eyes bright and shiny. Arthur reached out a pointing finger.

  "Beast," he said.

  I grinned. "No . . . well, yes, I suppose it is a beast. But it's a frog, Arthur. A frog."

  He frowned. "Fwog." His two-and-a-half-year-old tongue could still not fit around the letter R.

  "Yes, a frog. Were you showing him to Germanicus?" He nodded solemnly, his eyes still on the frog. "Where did you find him?"

  "I caught it, Commander Merlyn, and gave it to the lad." I had not heard the stableman enter, and his voice, directly behind my shoulder, startled me so that I jerked, and the frog took a mighty leap from my hand, landing at least two paces from where I crouched. It paused there for a heartbeat or two, collecting itself, and then leaped again and again, bounding this time into an empty stall. With a startled hiss of surprise and excitement, the boy threw himself after his escaping prisoner, dropping to his hands and knees to scuttle beneath the stall door in hot pursuit. I stood up, glancing ruefully at the stableman.

  "His aunt Shelagh's going to be really grateful to you if he finds that thing again and takes it home with him." The stableman—his name had completely escaped me—shrugged philosophically.

  "Boys catch frogs, Commander. It's part of being a boy."

  "Aye, but not at two-and-a-half. He shouldn't be in here, you know. It's too dangerous. He could be kicked, or trampled."

  The big man grinned, shaking his head and contradicted me without malice, chewing his words and slurring them until they were barely discernible as Latin. "Not that 'un, Commander. Every 'orse in the place knows 'im, and they all seem to know just 'ow little 'e is. They step very carefully around 'im, almost as if they're taking extra care not to damage 'im."

  I looked sharply at him, thinking he was gulling me, but his face held no hint of raillery. "That is ridiculous." He shrugged again.

  "I know that's 'ow it seems, but it's the truth, Commander. They all knows 'im, an' 'e knows all of them—by name, although 'e can't pronounce your mount's full name. Jemans, 'e calls 'im. An' Jemans comes to 'im and eats out of 'is 'and. Lad climbs right up the rails, alongside the 'orse's 'ead, there. I never seen the like, an' 'im so little."

  At that moment the boy emerged from the empty stall, covered in ends of straw and clotted horse manure and clutching his prize triumphantly, holding it gently but firmly with both hands around its abdomen. Its hind legs, extended now, seemed longer than his arms. "Fwog!" he announced, holding the hapless creature high.

  "Frog," I repeated, looking from him to the grinning stableman. "Let's take it home and show it to your aunt Shelagh." I waited until he changed his grip, frowning with concentration until he held the frog securely in one hand, and then I took his other hand in my own and led him out of the stable.

  When his Uncle Connor arrived the following day, he had to meet Fwog formally and gain his acceptance before he was allowed to hug Fwog's patron . . .

  I had met with Connor briefly on my return from Cambria the previous year, when he had brought the breeding cattle to Liam and delivered his brother Donuil to his wife as part of the endeavour. He had been prepared to leave to return to Eire the day we arrived, but had waited an extra day to spend some time with me and tell the true, unembellished tale of "Donuil's War," Connor's own name for the rebellion his young brother had forestalled. He had had little choice in thus remaining, Connor had explained to me that evening, since one of two alternatives was certain to occur and he had no way of knowing which: either his brother would be overcome with unwonted modesty and would play down his own heroics, thereby shaming his wife, or he would take the other route and grasp all of the credit to himself, thereby shaming his wife. Better that Connor should remain an extra day then, he reasoned with a wink at me, and see the median path of honesty and the dignity of Donuil's wife both well served.

  fie had proceeded to relate the story of how Donuil, who had left home a mere boy in a man's frame, returned from the sea alone and stood as a man against treacherous brethren. Ignoring Mungo Rohan completely, since Donuil himself had executed the fat man the night he arrived home, Rohan's guilt in the death of their brother Kerry established by the dried blood-stains on the clothing he had not yet contrived to burn, Connor told me that Fingael had not been the only one of Athol's kin who had stooped to treachery, allying themselves with enemies in hopes of snatching up their king's fallen coronet of gold. Another brother, Kewn, whom I had heard of but not met, had treated with the MacNyalls of the west, and two of Athol's own brothers had been close with the enemy, one of them liaising with the depraved clan who called themselves the Children of Gam, the other dealing closely with the northeastern federation who called themselves the Sons of Condran and were commanded by Condran's sons, Brian on land and Liam at sea.

  Donuil, sharing the leadership of the land armies with his father Athol, had led his forces to three great victories, while his brothers Connor and Brander, using their fleets in consort, had destroyed the shipping of the alliance, interdicting their supplies and inflicting a second, crushing defeat at sea on Liam, the younger son of Condran and the old king's admiral.

  Much mead had flowed during the retelling of this tale, which lost nothing in the rivalry of the two brothers in the reporting of it, and the night had long grown dark before we went to sleep. Before we did, however, I invited Connor to visit Camulod next time he came to Britain, since he had said he would be returning regularly thenceforth, checking on the welfare and the needs of Liam and his stock, now that permission to be there had been clearly granted them by the Pendragon. He had mulled upon that in silence for some time, and then admitted he would think on it. I had said no more, other than to remind him of it the next morning before he left.

  Now here he was, in Camulod itself, attempting to disguise the awe our fortress stirred in him. He had arrived in comfort, in a wagon, with an escort of three score of his "kerns," as these fierce Ersemen called themselves, marching behind and around him. And their coming had stirred chaos. Fortunately Donuil, aware that Connor might arrive one day, had discussed such an' unheralded arrival with me and Ambrose,
and standing orders had been issued to our outposts to expect such a visit, and to supply an honour guard to bring our guests to Camulod itself. We had also left word with Liam Twistback that Connor, should he come, would be welcomed if he approached our outposts openly and named himself.

  And so it had happened. Connor and his men had come to our outpost at Acorn Lake and announced themselves, and the officer in charge there, young Jacob Cato, had led them directly to the fortress, sending word on ahead that they were coming.

  I was acutely aware, from the first, of Connor's gratification at the high esteem enjoyed in our Colony by his younger brother, since it echoed my own satisfaction with Donuil's progress among us.

  From the first day of Donuil's return to duty, I had marked a change in him. He had asked me that day if I would object were he to find himself armour like mine. Delighted that he should wish to do so, I gave him leave to find whatever he could unearth to cover his huge frame, and within two weeks he appeared one morning dressed from head to toe in a completely uniform set of burnished-bronze armour made especially for him and worn over a new, white woollen tunic bordered with my own favourite Greek key pattern. Upon my asking how he had achieved all this so quickly, he merely smiled and quietly reminded me that, early in our relationship when I held doubts about his capabilities, I had told him that the single most distinguishing characteristic of a good adjutant was the ability to get things done, without fanfare, without upheaval, without apparent effort and without crowing about his methods. Chastened, and subtly rebuked, I resisted the temptation to question him further.

  From that day forward, Donuil had been at my side constantly, immaculately turned out in Roman splendour and capable, it seemed, of anticipating every need not only of mine, but of Ambrose, too, with whom he had developed a deep friendship. And when he was not with me, on duty, he went riding with his wife, as long as she was able, learning from her the equestrian skills he and I both had sworn would be beyond his reach forever.

  Relieved of his concerns over his brother's function here among Outlanders, Connor relaxed and the remaining six days of his visit sped by, enlivened by long evenings when he and I, in company with Donuil, Shelagh, Ambrose and Ludmilla and assorted others, enjoyed each other's company increasingly, so that there was no longer any need to issue invitations to return. Return became a simple matter of arrangements.

  When he and his kerns marched off northwest again, they marched accompanied by sixty of our troopers who went north to relieve half of Ded's contingent, which was still involved in Cambria after more than a year. Twice in the year elapsed we had made such changes, and still the war in Cambria dragged on, although the cost to us and ours was nil. Our forces in the low Pendragon lands had met with no resistance or, at least, had remained unchallenged. Dergyll had managed to maintain his campaign as he wished, high in the upper reaches of their hills. Only twice in all the time spent there had Dedalus led his men forward into action, and on both occasions, after the merest skirmish, he had led them back whence they came, unblooded and unbloodied.

  The effect of the alliance in Camulod, however, had been salutary. We had had, at the outset, a total of one hundred and thirty-eight longbows, and two hundred bowmen, including the men Huw and his people had begun to train. Now, after a year, we had close on two hundred bows, a full thirty of them made by our own bowyers from the few yew trees we had been able to find locally. The source of the remaining score and more remained a mystery to me, although Huw Strongarm and his Celts seldom returned from visiting their homes without at least one extra bow among them. Thanks to our adoption of the laws laid down by Ullic Pendragon regarding bows—no man could own one, but each must serve as guardian and custodian of one for an entire year, responsible for its care and maintenance—we had no lack of caretakers for the new weapons, and indeed we had a glut of would-be bowmen, never less than four trainees for every bow available. An entire area on one side of the great drilling ground at the base of the fortress hill had been set apart for practise, and permanent targets—"butts" the men called them— had been set up at either end. Nowadays, too, there was no longer anything noteworthy in the sight of ranks of bowmen, densely packed, lofting their arrows over and ahead of ranks of charging horsemen, changing their stance and aim so that each volley flew farther, landing ever ahead of the advancing cavalry. Surprisingly few of these arrows were destroyed by the advancing horses, but those that were were reckoned a small price to pay for the advantage gained. To this point, however, accuracy notwithstanding, all such arrows flew with weighted but unpointed heads.

  Thus passed the second year, with one more, golden harvest. Ludmilla had a baby girl that autumn, a raven-haired beauty whom she named Luceiia, and by Yuletide Shelagh was with child again.

  In May the following year, again at the feast of Beltane, a stranger showed up at our gates, escorted by a guard from our southernmost border. At first glance, I did not recognize the stranger as a priest, yet when he raised his hand to bless me, I was unsurprised. He had that air of sanctity about him. He also had a heavy, weatherproofed package containing a letter from Germanus, a response to my epistle of two years before. I left him in the care of Donuil and Ambrose, and took myself off to read what my friend had written:

  Auxerre, Gaul 436 Anno Domini Caius Merlyn Britannicus

  Dear Friend:

  You can have no idea how pleasant was the surprise I felt when I received your letter. I have read it many times since then, smiling each time as I perceived your face, clear in my mind, reflecting the conviction of your words.

  I grieved for you, in reading of your loss. The brutal winter that deprived you of your friends and of your much-beloved aunt afflicted even us, here in the warmth of Gaul, but nowhere near as painfully as it scourged your land of Britain.

  Let me add, however, that I have never feared for the condition of your great-aunt's soul. I have heard her spoken of by many of my brethren, as you know, and all who knew her spoke of her as being among God's blessed and chosen servants. She has passed into a life, Caius, where winter is unknown. Convinced of that, my prayers have gone to God on your behalf, that you might come to know the peace of mind such certitude entails.

  Your missive reached the Bishop, here in Gaul. The Legate whom you remember retired from life long since, and has not even mounted a horse since our return from Britain all those years ago. Despite that flight of time, nevertheless, and without negating or regretting or maligning any of the duties and concerns that fill my life today and keep me working long into each night, I will admit to you, between ourselves, that I experienced some pangs of yearning when I read your words and felt the tone of them.

  I live in contemplation nowadays but not, alas, in quietude. All who address me now—and there are far too many such, each day and every day—do so with regard to my position and supposed sanctity, my position in and of itself alone, be it understood, entailing the supposed sanctity. How refreshing then, my friend, to be hailed simply as a man and a fellow-soldier by such as yourself! Humility, I find, becomes more difficult to attain from day to day when one is constantly besought by supplicants and must deal with abject entreaties and with the obsequious flattery of those who seek preferment.

  I note your mention of the absence of monastics in your lands. They are there, my friend, nonetheless, and are proliferating here in Gaul. I find them, in the main, obedient, pious and devout—though quite culpable, I fear, in meriting your succinct revulsion over their personal habits of cleanliness. Thanks to my own early military training and a lifetime of assiduous ablutions, my feelings tend to lean towards yours in that aspect, I will admit to your eyes alone! And yet the Bishop that I am today must, and does, recognise the value of self-denial and of rededication and devotion to the principles of Our lard, after the Godless excesses of the Empire. We must take care, however—and I am at pains to teach this viewpoint—to observe the median of moderation and avoid the temptation to excessiveness in bringing change. Fastidiousness aside, how
ever, I find myself approving of the spirit underlying the development of this monastic application. I see the zealots within the movement plainly—their presence is impossible to miss—and I do what I may to obviate their intemperance, hut the outcome lies with God, as it must in all things earthly, and in Him I am content to repose my trust.

  And upon that thought, I took much heart from your report upon the spread of Our Lord's work in Britain. Others send such word to me, not least the British Bishops, but the ratification from you, unsolicited, is encouraging. It pleased me, too, to read that the name of Pelagius is no longer heard in Camulod, save in your own heart, loyal to its roots. Would that were true elsewhere! In many parts of Britain, it appears, his heresy is still being taught despite our Verulamium conclave, although my schools do prosper otherwhere. I sent word to Bishop Enos of my gratitude for his service in this matter of your letter and asked him to assure himself from time to time of the good of you and yours.

  I must observe, my friend, that Enos is correct to censure you, albeit mildly, for your attitude towards these Christian souls who bear the name of Saxon. I have thought long and deeply on this matter since reading of your difficulty in accepting the mere thought of such. Your ancestors, and mine, were once regarded in the self-same light by those who live in amity beside you now. Think upon that, and upon this: I speak of Christian souls, not of pagan raiders; of families now settled and secure on holdings that they nurture, with children who will know no other home. Consider it, my friend, in Christian charity.

  I have sat hours here, writing by myself, and now grow tired. My prayers include you frequently, along with the quite selfish wish that we might meet again someday. Take care.