The Eagles' Brood cc-3

by Jack Whyte

  "Oh, him!" He stopped and looked at me wonderingly. "That was Uther Pendragon?"

  I nodded. "It was. You killed him?"

  "Well, yes, but I didn't know who he was. Never seen him before, not that it would have made a difference."

  "Personally? You yourself?"

  "Personally. Me myself. I killed him." He seemed to be challenging me to do something about it.

  "When?" My voice was no more than a croak and my heart was thundering in my ears as I asked this question, for I suddenly dreaded to hear the answer.

  "This morning." The words I was hearing echoed in my head as though emerging from a deep well. "Just before daybreak. We'd been chasing them for days and caught them just as they were breaking camp. Knew it was Uther's army, but they were all scattered and chewed up. Didn't know it was Uther himself."

  "Why did you take his armour?" I asked the question knowing it was a vain attempt to avoid what was to follow.

  He looked at me as though I were crazed. "Why wouldn't I? He didn't need it any more. I haven't been home in more than two years. He was the only man I've met in months—years, because the last one was you—whose armour was big enough to fit me. Even his helmet fits me."

  "How.. .exactly how did you kill him?" It was a question I had to ask, to quell my own sudden certainty.

  He shook his head in wonder at my stubborn pertinacity. "What does it matter? With this, same as I kill most men I fight against." He reached down and produced a fearsome weapon from where it hung at his saddle bow. It looked like a reaper's hook fixed to the handle of a battle axe. It had a broad blade three handspans long, both sharpened edges of which were wickedly serrated. The sight of it chilled my gut and brought a cataract of teeming memories.

  "In the back. You caught him low in the back.. .here." I pointed to where I had felt the agony.

  He nodded, his brow wrinkled in puzzlement. "That's right, just below the edge of his backplate. He was trying to mount his horse when I reached him...one foot in the stirrup, but the horse was shying. Couldn't get a clear swing at his head or neck because of his helmet, tried twice, but couldn't, so I took him low, backhanded. How did you know that?"

  "I dreamed it, twice. I felt it this morning, when it happened." His eyes grew wide as he stared at me.

  "What are you talking about?"

  I shook my head, bemused, trying to shake off the feelings that assaulted me, but he kept talking.

  "What d'you mean you felt it? Felt what? What madness is this?"

  "Your weapon...that thing you have there. Did you have it with you when last we met?"

  "No." He shook his head. "No, I took it from a Saxon in the north about a year ago. Best thing I ever came across for swinging from a saddle. Why?"

  "I saw it in a dream, the night after I first met you. I saw you standing over a dead man...someone I couldn't see...but I was saddened by his death. And in my dream you turned on me, with that.. .thing in your hand."

  He drew himself erect, settling himself in his saddle and blowing out his breath with an explosive sound. "What are you, some kind of sorcerer?"

  I was asking myself the same question, for I could no longer deny, as I had been denying all my life, the strangeness of the power that sometimes stirred within me, frightening me with its potency. In a grim, silent parade of mockery, the memories of all the dreams of all the times before passed before my mind's new and all-seeing eye: a hundred and more shadowy events, but prime among them the death of my father; my vision of Ambrose before we met; and the death of Uther at the hands of Derek of Ravenglass. I knew the word for what I had conceived. It was prescience, but prescience was sorcery, and I had abjured all things magical throughout my life, discrediting their existence unless they involved human, manipulative trickery and the underlying wish to win power, to whatever degree, over men's minds. If what were there within me lay beyond my knowledge, let alone my control...I could not face the consequences of that line of thought and so I banished it, turning elsewhere for salvation.

  I looked down again at the woman. "Who is she?"

  Derek of Ravenglass shrugged. "Lot's whore. I'd heard tell she was fornicating with one of the Camulod bastards. When I saw her with them, I knew it was true."

  "But you still didn't know it was Uther?"

  "No." He was vehement. "How could I know that? I've been up in the north-west for the past two years. Only came back south this spring, three weeks ago."

  "Why did you permit her to escape from Uther's camp?"

  He gave a wolfish grin full of sharp canines. "No one 'permitted' her. They closed ranks against us and fought to the last man to give her and her escort time to get away. We've been after them ever since."

  I felt a vast calm flowing through me. "What do you know of Camulod?"

  He grunted. "Nothing, except that they're hard bastards. They fight hard and they die hard. Why d'you ask that?"

  "Because I'm one of them. Now you're going to have to kill me, too, before I kill you."

  He settled back in his saddle, his eyes narrowing, hefting his fearsome, hooked weapon, and I heard him sigh before putting his, Uther's, helmet back on his head again.

  "You said you were from Lindum, in the north," he said, sounding disappointed. "I believed you. I even liked you."

  I nodded. "I can be likable enough, I'm told. But I lied to you. We were caught unawares on the road that day, among Lot's gathering army. We had to lie our way out. I am Merlyn Britannicus, of Camulod. Uther's grandmother and my grandfather were brother and sister." I would fight and kill this man, I knew, or be killed by him, but in spite of all I had seen, I could find no anger in my soul against him. I searched for more fuel. "Why rape the woman and kill the others?"

  He was genuinely surprised by my question. "What? Why not, by all the gods? We're at war. Spoils to the victor, death to the vanquished. That's the way life is."

  He was right. I unsheathed my long cavalry sword. He looked at it, and then back into my eyes. "You think you can kill me, Merlyn Britannicus?" I did not respond and he went on, "Tell me, you said you dreamed of how I killed Pendragon?"

  I nodded. "I awoke with the pain through my bowels, but I didn't know what had caused it until I saw your hook there. That reminded me."

  "What time was this?"

  "Just at daybreak."

  "When I killed him."

  "Apparently."

  He shook his head in apparent wonderment, clearly at a loss as to what to make of me and my behaviour, then sighed again, a deep, dull, barking sound, and pulled back hard on his reins, dancing his horse around to face me on its other side. "Look, I don't want to fight you, man, but I will if I have to, whether you be Ambrose of Lindum or Merlyn of Camulod. In either case, I have no fear of you, sorcerer though it seems you may be, but neither have I any wish to kill you. So why don't we both simply ride away from here? I'll tell you where your cousin is and you can bury him."

  His words did not surprise me. Perhaps they should have, but I barely heard them. I was too busy looking at his saddle bow, at the red-leather-handled, iron-balled flail that hung there, suspended by a leather loop on the side his horse had exposed to me in turning. His eyes followed my gaze and he looked down to where the weapon hung.

  "What are you looking at?"

  "That flail, is it yours?"

  "Aye, mine by possession. It was hanging there when I claimed the horse."

  I kneed my own mount towards him. "Then it was my cousin's. May I have it?"

  He looked askance at me, one eyebrow raised high, then, seeing that I still held my helmet cradled in my arm, he sighed a third time, dropped his reins on his horse's neck and shifted his hooked weapon to his other hand. I leaned towards him and took Uther's flail when he held it towards me, feeling the familiar weight of it tug at my shoulder.

  "My thanks." I raised it high in my right hand, pointing the junction of the chain and handle skyward until the ball dangled before my eyes. Was it the one Uther had made so long ago, or was
it another, made to replace the first after that one had been thrown into the mere in my small valley? I knew that I would never know, but now I found myself grateful for the doubt that had again replaced my former certainty. I blinked away the sudden tears that had filled my eyes and hung the weapon gently from my own saddle bow. The northern king had watched me in silence throughout all of this. I looked at him again. "Where will you go now?"

  He shrugged. "Find Lot, perhaps, or go home. All my men are gone. Some home, most dead."

  "Lot is dead, too. I found his body hanging from a tree." I reached into my scrip and drew out the ring. "See? I took his boar seal."

  Derek of Ravenglass sniffed. "Hmm! That's that, then. I'm going home. I've a desire to see my children again."

  "Where will I find Uther?"

  He shrugged and hung his hook axe again on the side of his saddle, plainly convinced that we had no fight with each other. "Back the way we came. Follow our tracks along the beach. It must be twelve miles or more. You'll see where our tracks enter along a wide stream bed with a great, white gleaming boulder standing in the middle of it. Can't miss it, it's huge and bright white. Your cousin and his people are lying in a clearing three more miles upstream. A lot of mine are lying there too."

  We sat gazing at each other in silence for several moments longer, then Derek of Ravenglass cleared his throat. "Well then," he growled, "I wish you well, Ambrose called Merlyn. We were never friends, but we've never really been enemies, either, have we? We've got a saying among our people that only those touched by the gods feel the pain of others. Me, I've never believed in the gods, any of 'em, but there's not a doubt in my mind that you felt your cousin's death. So I think you really might be touched by the gods in spite of what I've always thought. That's why I have no wish to fight you. Farewell."

  He spun his horse and moved away and I watched him silently until he disappeared among the distant dunes. Neither of us had considered sharing the company of the other and that was as it should be. When he had gone from view, I looked again at the naked woman lying by my horse's feet and as I did so, she coughed weakly.

  Only when I was kneeling by her side, cradling her in my bent arm, did I become aware of how familiar she appeared, and then I knew beyond a doubt that this was Ygraine, sister to Donuil and Deirdre. The resemblance to both of them was there, unmistakable, in her face, and when she opened her great, green eyes, I knew her as the woman from my dreams of the previous night and my skin chilled again with goose bumps. She was unaware of me, or of herself or where she was. Uther's was the first name that sprang to her lips, and then she repeated it, this time less distinctly, slurring the vowels so that it sounded like "Ather."

  As I knelt there beside her, a wavelet rippled up the beach and soaked my knee. The tide was flowing fast now, and I thought to move her, but as soon as I began to lift her I stopped again. She was dying and my entire sleeve was soaked with blood. When I looked, I saw that the back of her head was matted with blood that welled slowly, but far too freely to staunch, and her head was crushed. I knew without looking further that she had been kicked by Derek's horse, probably while he was mounting to face my approach.

  Presently her eyes focused on my face and she seemed to know me as she asked, "Where is my baby?"

  "Baby, Lady? There is no baby here."

  "Yes, my baby. My baby bear. I promised Uther I would keep him safe and take him..."

  "Take him where, Lady?"

  "To Camulod! My baby! To Uther in Camulod.""

  "Ygraine," I whispered, "Uther is gone."

  "Uther? Ather...My son is Arthur. Pendragon's baby bear, his father call—" Her eyes went wide, startled, and she stiffened in my arms. "Uther?" she cried, and slumped dead.

  I laid her gently on the sand and closed her eyes, seeing in my mind the eyes of her sister and her brother. How long I knelt there, my fingers on her eyelids, I have no idea, but I was grieving for her and for all of us who lived in this sad land of Britain. And then I heard, from behind me, clear and distinct as a cockerel's crow, the sound of a baby crying. Incredulous, I swung around to find myself kneeling almost in the sea and hearing the wailing of a baby coming from the great, clumsy, heavy boat that now rode gracefully upon the waves.

  Starting to my feet, I flung myself towards it, feeling the water tugging at my armoured legs as I progressed. Deeper and deeper the water grew as the boat bobbed just beyond my reach, until I knew that one more step would take me under. Then, drawing a mighty breath, I launched myself with all my strength and felt the fingers of my right hand grasp the tailboard of the vessel. I scrambled and clawed and soon had both hands firmly in place, knowing that if I let go now I would drown, sinking straight to the bottom in all my armour. I waited and drew several deep breaths, gathering my strength, and then heaved myself up, swinging my right leg up and around to hook my heel over the side. It lodged on the wrong side, hampered by the spur on my heel, and it took great effort to twist it sidewise and inboard so the spur hooked instead on the safe side, holding me firmly. Moments later I had dragged myself up and fallen gasping into the safety of the boat, coughing and spewing bitter salt water, but enjoying the sheer pleasure of lying still, warm and wet, but safe.

  I found the baby lying against the single mast, swathed in, and tied into, a black bear skin. A beautiful boy, no more than eight or nine weeks old, his tiny, chubby face was wrinkled in rage, eyes tightly closed as he protested against the hunger he was feeling.

  I have never been able, nor am I able now, to describe the emotions that swept over me in those first moments of looking at the child who was to be my ward and this land's too brief-lived glory. I recall the feeling akin to reverence that filled me as I undid the bindings around the bear skin and peeled it away to look at him. He was swaddled in a long, white cloth that was stained and wet with the signs of his discomfort, and as I picked him up and loosened it his howls of outrage grew louder. Shortly thereafter, I held him naked, save for a soiled loincloth, and marvelled at the sturdy strength of him. This tiny, squalling mite was Uther's son, the fact attested to not by his red-gold hair, but by the red dragon crest of Pendragon on the signet ring fastened by a gold chain around his tiny neck. This was my nephew of a kind, blood nephew of my dear, dead wife Cassandra and nephew equally of my faithful friend Donuil, and in his veins, surging in virile potency, ran the pure Roman blood of the families of Publius Varrus and of my own grandfather Caius Britannicus, mingled with the royal Celtic blood of Ullic Pendragon, and of Athol, High King of the Scotii, the Scots of Hibernia. Here, in these minuscule, clenched fists, red face and squalling lungs, was a potential giant, distilled of a truly powerful concoction. A Leader, perhaps, to weld together the strongest elements of the people of this land of Britain. A King, perhaps, to wield Excalibur. In my mind, I clearly heard again the words Publius Varrus had spoken to me upon his deathbed: You'll know the day, and you'll know the man. If he hasn't come before you die, pass the Sword on to someone you can trust. Your own son. You'll know. You've been well taught. And you have learned well. You found the secret of the Lady, Cay, and then the secret of the saddle. You'll find the secret of the King, someday. You'll know him as soon as you set eyes on him. I looked at this small prince and I knew him and I shivered with foreknowledge, recalling another dream of a shining, silver sword piercing a stone.

  As though conscious of my awe, the child stopped screaming and looked directly up at me with wide eyes and my breath caught in my throat. He was well haired, his skull covered with thick, red, curling locks, the kind of curling hair that reminded me of my great-uncle Publius Varrus. But it was his eyes that gave me pause. I had never seen anything like them, yet I had read of them in Varrus's books. They were the deep, golden eyes of a raptor, a mighty bird of prey, an eagle. I had never heard of or seen a baby with golden eyes, but I knew that this baby's great- grand-uncle Caius Britannicus had had such eyes. I drew him close to me, smelling the baby smells of him and knowing I would have to clean him soon, knowing a
lso that I knew not how. And then I raised my eyes for the first time since boarding this craft, and looked towards the shore.

  There, shockingly distant and far to my right, I saw my black horse standing on the beach, watching me, his head tilted to one side as though he wondered where I was going. He was the only living thing on all that long stretch of sand, and behind him the land rose rapidly to form a line of cliffs against the sky. We had already drifted almost to the mouth of the bay, and the broad, deep stretch of water between the boat and the beach told me that we would not be returning there today. The breeze that had sprung up, blowing from the land, was gentle on my face, but it was strong enough to drive our boat further from the land with every heartbeat. For a long, long time I knelt there, holding the now quiet child protectively against my breast as we drifted out to sea. Together we watched the shores of South Britain fall further and further behind us.

  THE END

  PENGUIN BOOKS Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2 Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, cnr Roscdale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published in Viking by Penguin Books Canada Limited, 1994

  Published in Penguin Books, 1995

  109876

  Copyright © Jack Whyte, 1994 All rights reserved.

  Publisher's note: The Eagles' Brood is based in pari on actual events, but all the principal characters are fictional.

  Manufactured in Canada.