by Whyte, Jack
"No, he is my nephew, and my cousin. His mother was my wife's sister and his father's mother was the daughter of my grandfather's sister. That sounds complex, but it is the simple truth. He is bound to me by family ties in two ways." I thought it might be unwise to name his father at that time. Turga blinked at me.
"And what do you intend to do with him?"
"I'll take him home, to Camulod."
"And me? What will you do with me?"
"Do with you? I'll do nothing with you. You are free to do whatever you wish."
"What if I wish to stay with the boy?"
"Then you shall. I was hoping that you would, and I suppose I had assumed you would. He's nursing still, is he not?"
Her face had relaxed, and now her voice sounded slightly less hostile. "Aye, he is, and will be for another year before he's weaned, although he's bigger and stronger than most." She crossed back to where I sat and stood close to me, looking down at the sleeping infant, and when next she spoke her voice was softer yet again, as though she were speaking to herself alone. "I saved his life, you said. But he saved mine, too. We are close bound, this child and I, and I would kill to keep him safe and by my side." She turned to look at me. "Will kill . . . so if you have thoughts of taking him away from me, best kill me now."
I shook my head. "Turga, I have no slightest thought of separating you from him. The boy is orphaned. You are the only mother that he has, and he needs you. Therefore, I need you, too, to care for him and keep him safe from harm. There is a place for you with him in Camulod, and you will be happy there, at peace. What? What is it?"
She was looking at me strangely. "You tell me the answer to that question, Merlyn of Camulod, because there's more to this than I can see. A babe's a babe, and there are countless others to be found where it came from. But here we have a baby causing great concern among grown men and soldiers, warriors and kings."
I shrugged, accepting and acknowledging her insight. "He will be a king in Britain, in his own right, and he is grandson to Athol Mac Iain. He is a very special boy."
"And you? You must be a very special man, to be his guardian."
"No," I sighed, shaking my head. "I'm merely his cousin and his uncle both, but I am sworn to see to the raising of him, in memory of his. . . mother." I hat was not strictly true, but better, I thought, than stirring up questions on his paternity. She might have asked me about that then, but that was when the boy awoke and voiced his own displeasure at his smell and his condition.
"Dia!" she said, and bustled away to where a wooden bucket filled with water sat in a corner by the door. She picked it up effortlessly, swaying with it slightly so that the slopping contents barely spilled as she carried it to the fireplace, where she poured the contents into a deep, blackened metal pot with a semicircular, iron bucket handle. Then, carefully and deliberately, she settled the heavy pot among the coals of the fire, twisting it and testing its balance until she was satisfied that it would not tip over. "Here," she said. "Watch this and don't let it spill over."
I moved my stool over to the low fire, where I could now see that the pot sat supported on an arrangement of flat stones that had been buried and hidden by the coals, and as Turga picked up the howling infant, I kept one eye on the iron pot while watching her openly and admiringly as she tended to the child.
The soiled breechclout was disposed of quickly, loosened and removed and thrown into another wooden bucket before I had had time to see how it was fastened. That done, she seized the child by his ankles, holding them easily in one hand while she lifted and twisted him gently, cleaning his caked and soiled nether regions with another cloth before throwing that, too, into the bucket. She showed no repugnance as she performed the unpleasant task, and watching her, it occurred to me for the first time that this was a commonplace thing in a woman's life, that all mothers and nurses must do daily for their helpless charges. The realization, new as it was, surprised me and filled me with a novel admiration. I had performed the same task, when I had first found the child abandoned in the birney that had borne us out to sea, but I had done so merely because I had seen no alternative, and the entire exercise had sickened me, with its stench and foul stickiness. Now I watched it done with dispatch and the confidence of long practise and found it fascinating. In moments, it seemed, the child was clean again and had stopped wailing. Turga half turned in my direction, glancing at the pot on the fire, then brought the boy to me.
"Here, hold him while I get his bath ready." I took him in my arms, holding him against my quilted tunic, but ready to turn him away the moment he showed any sign of pissing on my tunic as he had on my armour. He blinked up at me, then his features twisted into a tiny scowl and he began to wail again.
"He's hungry, the brat," Turga said, not even glancing at us. She had wrapped a rag around the metal handle and lifted the pot from the fire, holding it away from her as she carried it to the only table in the small room where she tipped it, using another rag to hold the fire-heated bottom as she poured water into a large, shallow basin that had been hollowed from a wide section of log. She tested the warmth of the water with her elbow—something I had never seen anyone do before—and then she set down the water pot beside the fire again and took the child from me. He stopped howling as soon as she lowered him into the tepid water and I moved to stand beside her as she bathed him, holding her left hand behind his head as she washed him with a soft cloth held in the other. His eyes seemed enormous, and I watched in amazement as he kicked and splashed, his tiny limbs jerking reflexively in the freedom of the warm water.
"He's swimming," I said, hearing the amazement in my own voice. "He was swimming in the sea, when I went after him the day they threw him overboard. I didn't see it until now."
"That's silly, babies can't swim." Turga did not even glance at me. "He's splashing, that's all. He likes the warm water. Don't you, you little ruffian?" She released the washing cloth and tickled the baby's ribs, and he smiled up at her and gurgled, kicking harder. She scooped water over him gently for several more moments, then took up the cloth again and wiped his face and head, and I laughed at the way he screwed his eyes shut but made no signs of protest. Finally she picked him from the water in both hands and dangled him above the surface, shaking him gently to dislodge the water that still clung to him, and nodded towards a thick roll of cloth on the tabletop.
"Hand me that towel."
She wrapped him warmly, drying the top of his head with soft, gentle movements, and then removed a small, circular box from a pocket in her robe. She twisted it open to reveal some kind of unguent, pale lilac in colour and smelling strangely familiar, then undid the wrappings of the towel and hoisted him again by his ankles, smearing a thin covering of the fragrant stuff over his buttocks and into the deep creases between them and around his groin.
"Lavender," she said, filling my mind instantly with recognition of the scent. "Replaces the stink for a while, and stops him from getting sores and rashes." Another, fresh, breechclout appeared in her hands as though by magic, and within moments the child was covered and securely wrapped again and I was holding him, moving to sit again on the three-legged stool by the fire. Gazing into the child's face, I was aware that Turga stood close by, gazing down at me. I looked up at her.
"What are you thinking?" she asked. I shrugged, smiling.
"That I've been foolish. I have learned more about infants in the past half hour than I have learned in all my life till now . . . And I was wondering how anything so small and helpless as this babe might ever grow to be a man, a warrior, and a king."
Turga said nothing at first, merely gazing at me with a speculative look that I could not define, and knowing she would speak when she was ready, I looked closely at her for the first time since meeting her earlier. She was a handsome woman, I decided, though large and somewhat coarse-featured, and I estimated her age as somewhere in the middle twenties. Large-breasted, as a wet nurse ought to be, and full-hipped, she had broad shoulders to support those b
reasts, and I knew her legs, beneath the long, plain homespun robe she wore, would be firm and muscular, heavy and strong. Her hair was dark brown but otherwise indeterminate in colour, and her eyes, evenly spaced and very slightly protuberant, were a pale, startling blue in the swarthiness of her weathered face. The pores on her nose were clearly visible from where I sat. As I examined her, trying not to stare too obviously, she pursed her lips and raised her hand to one breast. I saw the dark, wet discoloration of discharged milk beneath her finger.
"I need my stool. It's time for him to feed."
Flustered, I rose and she took the boy from me as she sat down. I did not know what to do then, whether to stay or to remain. She made the decision for me without embarrassment, adjusting the front of her gown and easing a swollen nipple out to where the boy could reach it. He needed no guide, and began to guzzle noisily. She leaned her head back slightly and closed her eyes and the skin of her face seemed to smooth itself as she drew a deep breath and then released it.
"When will we leave for Britain?"
"Soon now, before winter sets in." I was gazing at the suckling boy. "Athol will tell us when."
She opened her eyes again and looked up at me, cupping one hand protectively over the child's head. "The boy would do well here, with Athol's folk. Children are welcome here, and loved. Will he fare equally in this place you come from, this Camulod?"
I nodded, feeling a smile tugging at me. "Aye, he will, and better. . . So will you, Turga."
She nodded, her face expressionless. "So be it, then. We'll go. But bear one thing in mind, always. He may be yours, and may inherit all you have, but he is mine, as well, as I am his, and harm will come to him only after I am dead, for I'll kill, or die trying to kill, any who threaten him."
"Then I'll lie dead beside you, Turga, for I have sworn the same oath."
She looked at me, and for the first time, her lips twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. "Good," she said. "That's good. You do your part for him, and I will do mine, and he'll be well protected. And perhaps he will live to become the king you wish him to be."
I stooped and took her free hand, raising it to my lips, and she watched me quizzically, making no move to withdraw it. "I promise you, Turga, no matter what may transpire in the future, no matter where young Arthur's road may lead, you will go with him, under my protection, for as long as he and you may wish." She stared at me a moment longer, then nodded her head very slightly, accepting my promise, and returned her attention to the child at her breast. I turned and left quietly.
XVIII
I have a vision stamped into my mind, a memory that fills me even now with anxious helplessness, in which I see myself standing on the foredeck of what I came to know as Shelagh's Galley, my hands clutching the rail tightly as I look back to watch the distant shores of Athol's kingdom shrink into a narrow line of grey, like clouds edging the horizon. Behind me, I know without looking, Shelagh herself stands beside Donuil, sheltered in the bend of his arm beneath his cloak, while the others of my party stand, sit or lie here and there wherever they have found space. To my right, in the wide, middle part of the vessel, our horses are secured, tethered by headstalls to stout wooden rails that cross the deck from side to side. But in the thinking of these things, in the act of recalling them, they are eclipsed from my mind by the looming vision of the hawklike eyes of Shelagh, filling up my mind.
The wind had been fair and steady that day. Above my head, a great square sail bellied from the central mast, and at prow and stern on either side, four teams of Eirish oarsmen swept their oars, their efforts carefully timed to marry with the mighty, sweeping strokes of the vessel that towed us, Feargus's great galley. Astern of us, riding easily in our wake, Logan's galley breasted the waves, making easy progress, awaiting the moment when it would take up the strain of towing us, relieving Feargus and his crew. We seemed to fly over the water, which was calm beneath blue skies dotted with scattered clouds.
I kept my eyes fixed on the distant hills of Eire, grasping the handrail even more tightly as a shapeless dread that filled my chest sought to overwhelm me.
Angered at my own senseless feelings of foreboding, I jerked my gaze away and looked around to where Feargus's galley pointed its nose to sea. Feargus, I knew, had more valid cause for deep concern than I had; my fears were obscure and formless, his sharp and crisply limned. Feargus misliked to head straight out into the unknown sea, for once beyond sight of land he would have no way of knowing where he was, or whither he was moving. His galley was overmanned, as was its consort, crowded with half again as many rowers as either craft would need in the normal scheme of things, and depriving Athol's forces of much-needed strength at home.
Feargus was gambling heavily on speed and strength, and fortune, hoping to exploit to maximum advantage the unusually mild break we were enjoying from the normal weather patterns at this time of year. If the wind held and the seas stayed calm, and if his crews, aided by the extra men aboard, could maintain the astounding pace he would set both day and night, he hoped to bring us safely across the narrowest part of the open sea between his land and mine in two days and nights, despite the terrors of losing sight of land by which to steer.
Beyond Feargus's sail, lighting it brightly from behind so that the shapes of sail and mast were thrown into silhouette, the morning sun climbed steadily into the sky. The last of the gulls that had followed us from the river's mouth broke away, swooping low over the waves and turning towards the distant land, rapidly diminishing until it vanished. The sail above me shifted with a loud crack as the wind veered slightly and once more the eyes of Shelagh filled my mind.
A large crowd had assembled on the pier along the bank of the river estuary immediately before our departure. Athol was there, and Connor and another ten or so in the king's own party gathered to bid us farewell and a safe journey. The horses were aboard and secured, and our possessions stowed away beneath the temporary decking installed to hold our horses. My men had said their good-byes and filed aboard, four of them handling Quintus with great care, keeping his stretcher level as they transferred it aboard, lest he reinjure his fast-healing leg. The tide was high, and about to turn. I had bidden my last farewell to Athol and to Connor, and then climbed aboard, leaving Donuil and Shelagh and her father to make their parting with the king in their own way.
Once aboard, I made a swift inspection of our status and found it satisfactory. A pair of massive, solid-wooden thwarts had been mounted on the foredeck, hard by the pointed prow. Solidly braced and bolted at their base to the structural beams inside the ship, down near the waterline, they were well buttressed by two flanking beams braced against the prow. There was but one purpose for these new thwarts, added by Athol's shipbuilders in recent days: to hold the end of the cable tow that would join our vessel to our larger, faster escorts.
A sudden swell of noise attracted me to the side and I saw people running towards the king and his party from the shipyards that lined the edges of the riverbank. A crowd of people, all of them men. Curious, I scanned what I could see of the shipyards, searching for a reason for the exodus, but there was nothing to see. The shipyards, which we had not seen until the time arrived for us to leave, seemed peaceful, dotted along the water's edge with galleys in all stages of construction, most of them new-looking, of bright, unpainted wood. On our arrival from the south, we had emerged from the forest upstream from these yards, turning away from them to Athol's stronghold without ever suspecting their existence. I watched as the first runners swarmed onto the pier, thronging around the king. Something was wrong, I knew, but I felt no desire to leave the deck to find out what it was. And now the king and Donuil were arguing, the one peremptory, the other expostulating fiercely; their voices, raised, came to me muffled by distance and by other noises so that I could make out no words. Shelagh pulled Donuil's arm, tugging at him, willing him to go with her, and the king waved his arms in turn at Liam, bidding him depart quickly. The three turned and made thei
r way towards the plank that led up to the deck, Donuil unwilling and with many a backward glance. The king hurried away, his retinue in train, and abruptly the wharf lay empty save for two hurrying figures who cast off the ropes that bound our galley to the land. Distant movement atop the walls of dirt and logs that surrounded the shipyards drew my eyes. There was great activity there now, and the smoke of fires being lit.
I heard shouting from behind, and from on board, and the deck beneath my feet heeled slightly as the tow rope tightened, water squirting from its straightening length, and our craft began to move out from the wharf, dragged by the nose so that it turned almost within its own short length. As soon as we had left the land, our Eirish oarsmen lowered their sweeps and there was a rush of feet and the creak of more ropes as the spar that supported the sail was hoisted to the masthead and secured. In the space of mere heartbeats, it appeared, we were progressing at great speed, the river mouth already far distant behind us. I saw a seaman leap up to the rail and gesture northward and as I looked where he was pointing, I was unsurprised to note the other sails that dotted the skyline. Brander had come home.
Donuil, Shelagh and Liam had remained apart from the rest of us after boarding, talking urgently among themselves, and only now did Donuil step away from them and come to stand close by my side.
"What was that about?" I asked. "You looked for a time there as though you would remain behind."
"Aye, and I still think that was my place, in spite of what my father and the others say."
"What has happened?" I knew, before he answered, what his words would be.
"We were attacked, in heavy force, at dawn. From the south, as we expected. Finn was in place, and met them before they could build up momentum. He was hard-set, but holding them before the stronghold. He will not retreat inside the walls as long as he has strength to keep them back from the gates." Donuil gestured now to where his brother's fleet grew closer in the north. "Now that Brander is here, his men should make the difference and may enable Finn to turn the marauders back."
