Camulod Chronicles Book 8 - Clothar the Frank

by Whyte, Jack

  "Then you might like to read the treasure we will take from here, for it is all in words, written on fine parchment. Piles and piles of it, covered in fine script over a period of several lifetimes by men long dead. Would you wish to read what it has to say?"

  Lars laughed suddenly, a harsh, deep bark. "Nay, Lord, I would not. But if there be as much as you describe," it will make a heavy burden. I'll gladly help you carry it, but I would rather die beneath the lash than have to read it." The others joined in his laughter, and I waited, smiling still.

  "You're right, it will be heavy, three large bundles. So I suggest you and another make a litter of poles, the easier to carry it between four men. Four more of you to dig this grave, working in pairs."

  "Who was he, Lord? The man we are to bury?" The questioner was Origen, the youngest of our group but already famed among his peers for his coolheaded courage and a wisdom beyond his years.

  I shook my head. "As easy for you to say as for me, Origen. A vagrant, perhaps, who stumbled on this place and remained here to die."

  "Then why the labour of a burial, Lord? Why not simply leave him where he is?"

  That stopped me short, because I recognized the danger hidden in the simple question. Why, indeed, go to the trouble of burying a long-dead pile of unknown bones? But my tongue had already gone ahead of me so that my answer was as glib as any long considered, and my smooth response evoked another burst of laughter from my listeners. "Because he's in my bed, my friend."

  As the laughter died away I looked up at the rapidly darkening sky above our heads. "Laugh as you will, but I mean it. We will stay here tonight and return to the coast in the morning. This is as safe a place as we could find in all this land, for no one knows it exists. The rain seems to have passed, but should it return we can all sleep beneath the old roof, there, packed in like grapes on a stem, but warm and dry. But there is only one small bed, and I lay claim to it, as senior here. Our bony friend will not feel the dampness of cold earth atop his bones, but I would find his dusty presence irksome, sharing the bed with him." That drew another chuckle, and as it died I spoke into it.

  "So, the three of you who are left idle for the moment will have a task as well: two of you to gather up the bones of our dead friend and wrap them carefully for burial in the blanket that covered him, while the other shakes out the remaining bedding and the sleeping furs. Clovis, I leave it to you to do the shaking out. Take pains to shake out all the dust here in the open, if you will, but do so with respect. We may not know who this man was, but we know he died here alone and friendless, probably unmourned. And looking about the place in which he died, we found no weapons . . . not a sword, an axe, a knife or even a club. No means of self-defense at all, which tells me that this dead man was a man of peace."

  "Either that or a base-born, gutless fugitive." The whispered comment had not been meant for me to hear, but it reached my ears nonetheless. The speaker, Armis, known as Blusher to his companions, knew I had heard his comment, and a deep red flush swept up his face.

  "Perhaps so, Armis. You may be right. But we will never know, will we? And thus, we'll look at it my way. Do you agree?"

  Armis said nothing at all, the red tide in his cheeks growing even deeper, and I turned back to the others, none of whom had yet laughed as they normally would at Armis's discomfiture.

  "We will tend him as though he were one of us, treat his remains with dignity, and see him to a decent burial at last. After all, but for the seas between this land and ours, he might have been grandsire to any of you, who can tell?"

  This last produced no laughter from my suddenly sober-faced audience, and I nodded. "Let's be about it, then, before it starts to rain again or grows too dark to see. Clovis, come you with me for a moment. There is much of your father here in this small valley, and since you are my youngest son, I want to share it with you."

  I felt no qualms about the subterfuge as I led him away, leaving the others to dispose of the tasks I had set them. As soon as we were out of their sight, however, I changed direction, circling around behind the hut until we reached the hanging screen of roots, briars and creepers that concealed the entrance to Merlyn's hiding place. It took me mere moments to work my way around the hanging mass and rip away the living curtain to expose the narrow entrance, and I used my body as a brace to hold back their weight as Clovis eased his way past me into the interior. It was dry inside, and dark, but there was light enough to show us what lay therein: two massive chests and a long, straight-edged package that obviously contained a box, tightly bound in some kind of uncured hide that had been soaked, then stretched tightly around its contents before being bound with narrow leather thongs and left to dry in place, forming a hard, stiff casing. Clovis turned to me, his eyebrows raised in query.

  I pointed at the long, narrow package. "This one is mine, from Merlyn. Bring it when we leave here and place it with the other two bundles in the hut."

  He pointed a thumb towards the chests. "What about those?"

  "Those we destroy. They contain sorcery—real sorcery. Merlyn took them from two warlocks, many years ago. I helped him bring them here. He always intended to destroy them, but he was curious about the things they held and could not bring himself to dispose of them before he knew their secrets. I suspect he eventually forgot that they were here and only found them when he brought—" I stopped short, on the point of saying "Excalibur." "When he brought this other box to leave safely for me. By that time, he was too old and weak, too tired, to destroy them effectively. And so, in the letter that he left, he asked me to complete the task for him. We'll burn them when we leave, tomorrow. Right now, we have to empty them and scatter their contents on the floor here. But he warned me that they are more than simply dangerous: they all contain death, in one form or another, and in some cases, he insists, mere contact with the skin can bring about a painful end. So be careful not to touch anything that lies inside either of them."

  I opened the larger chest, then stood gazing in surprise at what I saw. The interior seemed to be a narrow, shallow tray, filled with leather thongs and surrounded on all four sides by wide, ribbed borders. It took me several moments before I saw that the "ribs" along each edge were the edges of a nested series of trays, each deeper than the one above, and that the leather thongs were handles, one pair attached to each of the trays in series. I folded back the thongs, draping them over the edges of the chest, then found those for the first tray, the shallowest, which had contained nothing other than the layered thongs. I lifted it out and laid it aside, revealing the tray below. It was twice as deep as the first one, its interior divided into rectangular boxes, some of them empty but many filled to varying degrees with what I took to be seeds and dried berries of many colors. All of them would be poisonous, I told myself, lifting out the tray and resting it on one corner of the chest. I gripped it by the sides and turned it over carefully at arm's length, scattering the contents on the floor of the cave before setting the empty tray aside and reaching for the third set of handles. This tray was deeper and heavier, with fewer compartments, containing jars and vials. Those, too, I tipped out onto the floor, using my boots to free the lids and tip the containers so their contents ran or oozed out into the dirt. I looked up then and nodded to Clovis, bidding him open the other chest and follow my example. Three trays remained in my chest, the topmost filled with oblong boxes of green glazed clay filled with some kind of greenish paste. I dumped them out onto the floor, too, kicking their lids away and turning the boxes over with my booted toes, so that their contents lay face down on the dirt.

  The next tray contained what I took to be hanks of dried grasses and small tied bundles of twigs and dried herbs. I didn't know what those were, but they would serve as kindling for the fire I would light the following day. I piled them in the center of the floor. The bottom of the chest, the deepest compartment, was empty, save for a fat, squat wooden box containing what looked like a handful of granular black powder, which I shook out onto the pile of gr
ass. The array of trays on my left would burn well.

  "Look at this, Father." Clovis was holding something out to me. "It looks like a man's hair and face, peeled off the bone."

  "It's a mask. A mummer's trickery. Throw it with the rest."

  In less time than it has taken me to describe, we had emptied both chests, and their contents lay piled on the floor, surrounded by the half score of trays and the empty chests themselves.

  "Those are wondrous chests, Father, well made. It seems a pity to destroy such things."

  "We need them to burn, to destroy what they contained. Merlyn was quite clear about that. But there's not enough fuel in here to do that properly, so tomorrow morning, as soon as it's light, I want you to start gathering wood and bringing it in here. Have your friends help you. There'll be little dry wood, but no matter. Find what you can and chop it up into pieces small enough to bring through the entrance. Pack this place to the ceiling, if you can. The hotter the fire we make, the more completely we'll destroy what's here. But if your friends pay any attention to what's scattered on the floor, discourage them. Don't let them touch anything on the floor with their bare hands. If they ask you what we've done here, or why we did it, tell them it is my wish—that these are useless things too heavy to take home to Gaul. Tell them I have decided I have no wish to see them again, because of memories they stir in me. They will believe you. This is a day for memories, they have seen that. But on no account will you allow any of them to touch anything, unless you want to see them shrivel up and die before your eyes. Is that clear?"

  His eyes were wide and full of conviction. "Yes, Father. I'll watch them closely. They won't touch anything."

  "Good. I'll trust you to see to it. Now pick up my box, if you will, and let's get out of here. It's almost too dark to see, so it must be near nightfall."

  The rain held off that night and we slept well, and at dawn we were up and about. Clovis and his friends made short work of filling the cave with wood, and if any of them even noticed the spillage on the cave floor they made no mention of it. I spent that time alone, sitting on the cot and reading over Merlyn's letter several times, resisting the temptation to open any of the three parcels. When I smelled the tang of smoke from green wood, I went outside where I could see thick white smoke drifting from the trees fronting the vent that formed the entrance to the cave. My escort, their work over, were standing around, idly watching the increasing clouds of smoke. I called them together and brought them to order, and they stood grouped around the open grave as we lowered the tiny bundle containing the brittle bones of Merlyn Britannicus to rest.

  I found myself unsure of what to say over his grave, not having known if he was Christian or Druid. I had never been curious about his creed before. He had simply been Merlyn, sufficient unto himself, unbeholden to anyone, god or man. Now, however, I felt a need to say something aloud, notwithstanding that I could not name his name, and as my companions stood with lowered heads, just beginning to stir and shuffle with impatience, I cleared my throat and spoke, trusting my instincts.

  "We know not who you are, or were, nor do we know what God or gods you cherished. We know not how you lived, or how you died; how long you knew this place, or whence you came. We only know we found your bones awaiting us, reminding us that all men come to death. Rest you in peace here, now, surrounded by the beauty of this hidden place, and may none disturb your bed from this day forth. Fare well, wheresoever your spirit roams."

  We arrived back at Glastonbury at noon the following day, having met or seen no living soul on our journey, and as we approached, the anchorites began to gather in silence to watch us. The same old man was there at their head, but this time as I drew near he watched me keenly, his eyes slitted, and I knew he knew me now.

  I dismounted in front of him and held out the rope reins of his garron. "Safely returned," I said. "These old shanks are grateful for your generosity in sharing."

  Another man stepped forward to take the reins, and the old leader nodded.

  "You are the Frank," he said.

  "I am. And you are Declan." The name had come to me as he spoke. "How do you know me now, but not before?"

  "It was the horse. I saw you in the way you sat as you came in. Before, when you arrived, I had not thought to see you, so did not. I have something for you."

  "Something for me? How could you have anything for me?"

  "Come you." I followed him, waving to my men to stay where they were. The old man made no attempt to speak again and I went with him in silence until we reached one of the simple huts surrounding the stone ecclesia, where he stooped to enter the low doorway.

  "The building looks well," I said, gazing up at the stone church and feeling the need to say something, hearing the banality of my words as they emerged. "Is God still worshipped here?"

  Declan stopped on the threshold of his hut and looked back at me over his shoulder as though I had broken wind. "It is His house," he said. "Where else would men worship Him? Come."

  Feeling foolish, I bent to follow him into the tiny room that was even barer than Merlyn's hut had been, and so low that I had to stand bent over. It was dark in there, and smelled of straw, and the old man moved directly to the rough-edged hole in the wall that served as a window, where he picked up a flat, square wooden box a handspan long and held it out to me.

  "What is it?" I asked, taking it and holding it up to the light from the window. It was well made and had been richly polished once, but years of sitting in that window space, open to whatever weather prevailed, had deprived it of its luster, leaving only a fragmented pattern of flecks of ancient varnish, cracked and peeled.

  "It is yours," Declan said. "See for yourself."

  I replaced it on the window ledge and opened the hinged lid, which squeaked in protest. Inside, lying on a hard, textured bed of what might once have been brushed leather, was a pair of blackened, tarnished Roman spurs, their straps hardened to the consistency of wood, cracked and fissured by time. I lifted them out, one in each hand, and felt their solid, heavy weight. Blackened as they were by the years and lack of use, their delicate engravings were invisible, but I knew them well. I had been with Arthur when we found them among the rubble of a ruined house close to the ancient Roman fortress of Deva, far to the north and west of Camulod. The engravings explained that these were the ceremonial spurs of Petrus Trebonius Cinna, a senior officer of Equestrian rank, serving in the Twentieth Legion, the Valeria Victrix, that had served long and honorably here in Britain since the days of the early Caesars. They must have lain where we found them for hundreds of years, for the decorative arch of their ancient leather straps bore the insignia of Claudius Caesar, and three hundred years had passed since he ruled Rome.

  I looked at the old man, deeply perplexed. "Who gave you these to hold for me? Merlyn?"

  He shook his head. "The King." The old man's voice was barely audible but filled with awe and reverence. "Arthur, the Riothamus himself, may God's light shine on him forever. He stayed with us the night before he left for Camlann, where they killed him. 'Declan,' he said to me, 'the Frank will come back someday. When he does, give him these, from me, and bid him give them to his son.'" He cocked his head. "I never thought to see your face again, but he was right. You came. And now I have done as he wished." He glanced down at the spurs in my hands. "I have never touched those. His were the last hands to hold them. Do you have a son?"

  My throat had closed as though gripped in an iron fist, and I had to swallow before I could respond. "Aye," I said, my voice rasping. "I have three."

  "Your firstborn, then, he must have meant."

  "He did. But my firstborn was a daughter."

  "Well, then, let her hold them for her son."

  "She has one. His name is Tristan."

  He cleared his throat. "Aye, well, they are for him, then. Is he worthy of them?"

  I pictured my grandson's open, shining face with its strangely brilliant, gold-flecked eyes. "Oh, aye," I breathed. "More than wort
hy, I think. He possesses many of the characteristics of the Tristan in whose honour he was named, even if he is of different blood. He will wear these spurs well, when he is grown."

  "Good. Then may he wear them with honour. Now we had better go outside again, before your back is locked into that stoop forever."

  The next afternoon, as the shores of Gaul came into our view again, I caught my son Clovis staring at me with a strange expression on his face. He quickly looked away when he caught me regarding him. I went to sit beside him on the rower's bench he occupied.

  "Something is on your mind," I said, keeping my voice low. "Bothering you. What is it?"

  He looked wide eyed at me. "What d'you mean, Father?"

  "Just what I said. Three times now I have caught you gazing at me as though I were suddenly a stranger, so I want to know what you are wondering about."

  "I'm not wondering about anything, Father. Not really."

  I sighed. "Clovis, you know me well enough to know that I keep little from you and I seldom react with anger to a straightforward question. So humor me, if you will, and tell me what you're thinking. Or ask me the question plainly on your mind."

  He sat staring off into the distance, watching the distant coast rise and fall with the swell of the waves, and then he muttered something indistinct.

  "What? I didn't hear that. Speak up."

  His face flushed. "I said I was wondering who you really are."

  "What?" I laughed aloud. "I'm your father. What kind of a question is that?"

  "Aye, sir, you are my father, and I thought I knew you, but now I am unsure."

  He would not look at me, so I reached out and poked him in the ribs. "How so? What are you trying to say?"

  He turned, finally, and looked me in the eye. "You have two names I never knew before, Father—two names I've never heard. Hastatus, and the Frank. And now I find myself wondering how many more you have, yet unrevealed. The old man yesterday recognized you and said, 'You are the Frank.' Not simply a Frank, any old Frank as we all are, but the Frank. The name held great significance for him."