Camulod Chronicles Book 4 - The Saxon Shore

by Whyte, Jack

  Ambrose smiled and nodded at me and I grunted. "Aye, agreed, if duty will spare us. What is your second reason?"

  "Your own curiosity about the parts of this land you have not seen, and the people who inhabit them. Those Saxons who live along the Saxon Shore, and Vortigern's mercenaries. I know you are concerned about some of them, at least; those of them who have lived here now for several generations. You spoke of them when you returned from the south, after Lot's War . . . of how the people there feared the Saxons far less than Lot's Cornish mercenaries and Uther's bowmen. Am I not correct?"

  "Aye, you are. What of it?"

  "And again, you spoke of it when Ambrose here arrived with his men all dressed as Saxons, having travelled through the Saxon-occupied territories to reach us. . . It seems to me that a journey to Vortigern's kingdom might provide you with a wondrous opportunity to look more closely at some of these people . . . to meet them and assess them. Ambrose speaks their tongue—"

  "One of their tongues," Ambrose interjected.

  "One of their tongues, so be it. And he and his men have the clothing and the weaponry to pass unremarked among them."

  "With good fortune," Ambrose interrupted again.

  "As you say, with Fortune on your side. But—" He broke off and looked from me to my brother, leaving his thought unfinished. Ambrose nodded.

  "Luke's right, Cay. Know thine enemy. It's an opportunity to meet some of these people face to face and pass among them. It would be valuable."

  "Of course it would be valuable, but it would also be highly perilous."

  Ambrose grinned at me again. "Life is highly perilous, Brother, had you not noticed that before now?"

  I found myself suddenly impatient with the tone of this entire conversation. "Damnation, Ambrose, be serious! It would be folly to undertake such a journey, and you know that. We could both be killed, and where would that leave us?"

  "Dead in a forest or a meadow somewhere, removed from all further concerns. Unbend, Cay. We were but making idle conversation. There's no need to grow angry over it. And yet I agree with Luke. It would be worthwhile to scout the land, and enjoyable to do it in concert with you. What would be lost by it, given that we return alive?"

  "Discipline, for one thing." I moderated my tone, but I was far from mollified. "With both of us gone, at the outset of a program as ambitious and portentous as the one you've been describing, things could fall into chaos again within days of our departure. Who would you leave in charge? In the three months since you arrived, have you found anyone you might trust to such an extent?"

  His eyebrows went high on his forehead. "Aye, several. If there is one thing Camulod does not lack it is ambitious, bright young leaders, in both arms of our force."

  "Name some."

  "Young Brian Melitas, and his two companions, Cornelius Nimmo and Jacob Cato; Jacob's own father, Achmed Cato, although he is not young; your own companions on your journey to Eire, every one of them; Silas Agorine, one of the most brilliant young infantry commanders I've ever seen; Johan Sitrabo, another of the same calibre. There is no lack of deputies in Camulod, Cay."

  I sat staring at him for long moments, aware of Luke's eyes on me. Then I cleared my throat. "Apart from Achmed Cato, his son Jacob and my own companions, I know none of those men. That is unconscionable." Neither of my friends said anything to that, and I continued, speaking now almost to myself. "Only today, watching your young bowmen at practice, I realized that I have been away too long, both physically and mentally. I no longer know my own people. Even worse, I don't know our best and brightest young commanders. You have been here mere months, and you know them all far better than I do. I have a task ahead of me."

  Ambrose laughed gently and leaned forward to the fire, reaching for the great iron poker that lay in the hearth to stir the logs. "Don't berate yourself, Brother. Your neglect could hardly be described as willful." He busied himself with his task. "Besides, by the time you and I have immersed ourselves in our new program for a few days, you will know all of them. Such things come quickly, you and I know."

  Thereafter we sat silent, staring into the fire, each thinking his own thoughts, and the time went by until the logs began to settle, more than half consumed. The entire household was still, we three its only waking occupants. Lucanus was the first to move, standing up and yawning, ready for sleep. His action stirred a like response in us, and the last thing that was said that night was mine. I told them that I would consider riding to the east with Ambrose in the spring, to see for myself how matters were progressing elsewhere, but that my self-appointed task throughout the coming winter would be to come to know the Camulodian Colonists again—all of them, farmers, artisans and troopers—which prompted me to wonder what had become of Peter Ironhair since his departure. No one had seen him. No word had come of his whereabouts since the day he fled.

  We doused the candles and the lamps and left the family room in darkness that glowed with the embers of the dying fire, and I made my way directly to my quarters. I lay awake for a long time, thinking about all that had happened in the past few months, and was happy to be aware that Shelagh demanded little of those thoughts. Most of them, in truth, concerned the boy, Arthur, and the growing influence I suspected he was going to have upon my life from that time forth, and they had been precipitated by the short discussion of Peter Ironhair and his whereabouts and doings. No one had heard of him, but I had no reason to believe him dead, or indifferent to our affairs. He had simply faded from our immediate awareness, and that, I suspected without any real reason, might bode ill for us along some future way. Ironhair was alive and well, somewhere, I was convinced. But now, for some reason, I could not put the man out of mind. I tried to tell myself that he had consigned all of us to perdition and decided to live out his life elsewhere, far removed from sight and sound and memory of Camulod, but there was something within me that prevented me from being so sanguine. I tried eventually to banish him by thinking on the baby Arthur, and discovered to my mild astonishment that the mere contemplation of the child's existence was a source of delight to me, something I would not have believed possible mere months earlier, and I fell asleep some time after that, filled with the warmth of the memory of his tiny, sleeping face with its long, thick, almost feminine eyelashes.

  XXI

  Five days after that evening in the family room, seething with frustration and a debilitating fear, I decided—or to be more accurate and truthful, my friends decided after long and sometimes impassioned debate—that for the sake of my own sanity and the welfare of the men under my command, particularly the younger officers, it would be best to remove myself from all human contact for a while, and so I sought the stillness of the forest, armed with my bow and a quiver filled to capacity with arrows. There, for an entire week, and never less than five miles from the fortress, I hunted singlemindedly, cleaning my frequent kills and leaving them for collection at predetermined points by soldiers sent by Ambrose, with whom I had made the appropriate arrangements. None of the collectors ever saw me, although on each occasion I watched from concealment to ensure that they arrived and the meat was not spoiled. Each time, once assured that my orders had been carried out, I moved on to my next selected location and began my hunt anew, and all the time I struggled with my thoughts, my plans, my desires and my various dilemmas, one of which was what I should do about Shelagh, who had become, through my own carelessness, the second woman ever to set eyes upon Excalibur.

  The incident had occurred the day after my arrival home, before I became involved in the matter of Ambrose's schism. I had been up and about early that morning, full of good cheer and enthusiasm for the days ahead despite the fact that the rain was falling steadily outside, and I was on my way to Uncle Varrus's Armoury to search out a reference to Alexander's cavalry I had remembered from one of his books. On my way I had met Shelagh, quite accidentally, rounding the corner of a passage. She was carrying the infant Arthur, straddled across her right hip and supported in the bend of
her arm, and had been pleased to see me, laughing and talking to the child about me. He, for his part, had seemed singularly unimpressed by his "Uncle Merlyn," as Shelagh had called me. His large golden eyes had observed me without expression and then moved on to gaze at other, more interesting vistas down the passageway.

  On discovering that I was merely headed for the Armoury to read something, and in no particular hurry, Shelagh had asked me to mind the child for a few moments while she attended to something that she had forgotten to do. I took the child from her and watched her walk away, enjoying the sight of her firm buttocks moving tautly beneath her robe. When she had gone, and the child and I were alone, an impulsive idea occurred to me and I took the babe into the Armoury, mere steps away. I laid him on the floor while I pulled up the floorboard and retrieved the case from its concealment. Quickly, kneeling beside the infant, I wiped the dust from the polished wooden case with a cloth and then brought out the wondrous sword itself, waving it slowly now above the supine infant's form, and his eyes fastened immediately upon the shifting patterns of light along its shining blade.

  "There, Sir King," I breathed. "What think you of that? Pretty, is it not? This is your own sword, Excalibur. Would you like to hold it?" As quickly as the thought came to me, I held the weapon, pommel down, towards him. "See," I whispered. "It is yours. Take hold of it." He did, immediately, with both hands, and I felt the hairs stir along my nape. It was probably the polished gold of the pommel that attracted his eyes, carved as it was in perfect replication of a large cockle shell, but his tiny fists clamped just above it, at the junction of pommel and hilt, below my own hand; first the right hand, then the left, and both with authority.

  Long moments we remained immobile, and then I smiled and moved to break his hold, pulling the weapon gently back towards me. The child, however, would not let go. His golden eyes stared straight upward, fixed on the length of the great blade that reared above him, and his chubby fists hung on. Intrigued, and still smiling slightly, I increased my pull gently, seeking to break his tiny grip, but he clung staunchly, refusing to quit even when my greater strength began to lift his shoulders clear of the floor. Astonished now, I continued pulling and watched him continue to rise without effort, so that he was almost sitting up completely. A sudden vision of his grip breaking and his tiny skull striking the wooden floor made me stoop immediately to cup my free hand behind his head, but still he maintained his grasp on Excalibur. Finally, shaking my head in wondering admiration, I relented and lowered him gently and carefully back to the boards, removing my guarding hand only when he was supine again and using it to pry his tiny fingers loose from the hold he seemed determined to maintain. When I had done so, his eyes gazed now at me and I grinned at him and shook my head.

  "Not yet. Sir King," I told him, whispering still. "Not yet, but one day, surely, when your own size is greater than your sword's. Then you will grasp it firmly, and relinquish it to no man." The mighty sword still reared between us, but now the child seemed to have eyes only for me, as though he heard and understood my words. "Do not forget this day," I admonished him. "Nor this. Its name is Excalibur. Excalibur. . . Remember it."

  Done then, I began to rise to my feet again, only to be confounded by the sound of Shelagh's voice behind me, by the door she had opened noiselessly.

  "Merlyn, what are you doing?"

  I must have appeared either ludicrous or dangerous, or possibly both, scrambling to my feet and whirling towards her while attempting uselessly to conceal Excalibur behind my back. Her eyes were wide with alarm as she took a step further into the room, one hand reaching out towards the baby on the floor.

  "Stop!"

  She froze in mid-step, beginning to frown.

  "You're not supposed to come in here," I spluttered, hearing the futility in my own voice.

  Her brows came together now and her eyes flashed. "And why not? No one told me anything of that. It seemed a room like any other—" She stopped speaking abruptly and glanced quickly around the walls, noting the array of weapons that hung there, and the large books that lay on tables here and there. From there, her eyes went quickly to the child still lying placidly by my feet, then to the sword I held so ineffectually behind my back, its long, silver blade quite evident where it reached beyond my body, and thence to the open case with its leather-lined, sculpted cradle for Excalibur. I knew then, all at once and with despair, that I had forfeited all chance of diverting her from the sword. Had I possessed the presence of mind merely to hold it casually when she appeared, I might have smoothed things over, brazening it out. But my own horror in discovery had betrayed me.

  For long moments, neither of us moved nor spoke. Then, apparently satisfied that the child, at least, was safe, Shelagh drew a deep breath and stretched to her full height, turning her back to me and moving away resolutely towards the door. Once there, however, she increased my consternation by closing the half that lay ajar and turning back towards me, laying her shoulders flat against the join of the bronze-covered panels.

  "So be it, Merlyn Britannicus," she said, speaking in level, courteous tones. "I should not have come in here. Unfortunately I did, seeking you and the child and knowing no better. . . And now I have seen that weapon you are trying so uselessly to hide behind your back and the case in which it is kept, which evidently causes you great concern and makes you both afraid and angry, although I know not why. What is done is done. I have seen what evidently should not have been seen. So what am I to do? We may regret such things, once done, but we are powerless to change them."

  I gusted a great sigh then, I recall, and shook my head, shamefaced, then lowered my eyes to the floor, unable to meet her gaze and allowing Excalibur to come to rest with its point on the floor by my right foot. She waited for me to say something and when I did not, she moved swiftly to stand beside me, placing her hand upon my wrist, above the sword's hilt. When she spoke again, her voice was gentle, filled with sympathy.

  "The sword is wondrous, Merlyn, and plainly worth more than anything I have ever seen. Is that it? Is that your concern, that having seen it I might talk of it with others? Should I be unaware of its great value?"

  "Of its existence," I said, looking at her and watching her eyes narrow in surprise and incomprehension.

  "What did you say?"

  I sighed again. "I said you should not be aware of its existence. Almost no one else is."

  Distractedly, to give herself time for thought, she knelt and picked up the child, straightening immediately and settling him anew across her hip, where he leaned forward and began to nuzzle hungrily at her breast. She pushed his mouth away gently with the back of her fingers and hitched him higher. "There's nothing there for you, young man," was all she said, before squinting up at me.

  "What is it that is so remarkable about this thing's existence?"

  "It is the only one of its kind in the world."

  She pursed her lips, dropping narrowed eyes to where the huge cross-hilt gleamed in front of my fist, and then she reached out with one extended fingertip and placed the ball of her finger gently against the silver of the blade.

  "I can see that the guard there is different. That may be unique, as far as I can tell, and the colour of the blade is vastly different. But the blade itself is of a length with your own sword, so there's nothing special there. How then is this so magically rare that it's unmatched in all the world?" She glanced back at me. "Can you tell me? Will you? Wait! Before you answer, let me ask this: Has Donuil seen this sword?"

  I shook my head. "No, he has never seen it, but he knows of its existence. That he has never seen it is due merely to circumstance. The opportunity to show it to him has never arisen. Donuil is one of a very special group of living souls who know of it. The others are myself, my brother Ambrose, my great-aunt Luceiia, and now you. There are no more."

  Her eyes were wide with wonder. "But why?" she asked. "Why keep it secret? It is no more than a sword!"

  I found, quite suddenly, that I could s
mile again. "Ah, Shelagh, there you are wrong; in grievous error. This is far more than a sword. This is Excalibur, the High King's sword, and that young person in your arms is the High King himself. And now, if you will bear his regal hunger to be satisfied, I shall wait here for your return and tell you the entire tale of Camulod, Excalibur, and the Dream of the Roman Eagles who created both."

  She hesitated, tugged by the wish to leave and then return, and by the fear that I might leave while she was gone. "You will wait here?"

  I laughed then, feeling immensely better. "Aye, you need have no fear. A modicum of knowledge is greatly dangerous and now, to disarm that danger, I must tell you all there is to know. Only then will you be able to comprehend the secret you must hold from this day forward. Co now, and send someone to light a fire in here against the cold, then come back quickly."

  By the time she returned, Excalibur had been safely cached once more, the fire had been kindled and was burning brightly. She had taken time to change her dress and comb out her hair, and I thrilled with guilty pleasure as she crossed the room to sit beside me, close to the leaping flames. We talked then, or rather I spoke and she listened, for a space of hours, and in spite of my familiarity with the tale I told, its power consumed me yet again, so that I soon lost all awareness of her as a woman and spoke only for her ears and mind. So wrought up in my tale were we that we forgot eventually to tend the fire, and by the time I had finished, it had been reduced to glowing embers. As I replenished it, knowing the drying warmth to be beneficial to my uncle's books, Shelagh began to ask me questions, and we talked further, and the time passed quickly. But now that my self-absorbing tale was told, I found myself aware of her again, watching her body's supple sinuosity; seeing and sometimes sensing the motion of breast, belly, buttock and thigh; the flashing, laughing, flaring, breathtaking eyes; the casually tousled curls that hung and swung in such profusion, inviting contact, apparently wishing to be touched, caressed and smoothed. The physical disturbance caused by all of these things was almost overwhelming, and utterly deceptive. I knew implicitly that Shelagh felt no such desire for me. The invitations that my mind supplied were of my mind alone. Finally, almost in desperation, I stood up abruptly, interrupting something she was saying.