by Whyte, Jack
Knowing he had hit me hard, my opponent held back instead of rushing in to finish me, and in doing so he gave the initiative back to me. I took full advantage of it, using a two-handed grip to unleash a rain of blows, pushing him inexorably backwards with a fierce but unsustainable attack. I knew I was using the last of my reserves of strength but I had gone beyond caring. I knew that I would be finished the moment my attack began to falter, but I was determined to go down fighting. And then, in jumping backwards to avoid a crippling slash, my opponent caught his heel on something and fell heavily, landing hard on his backside and losing his blade.
It was my victory. All I had to do was step forward and place the end of my weapon against his chest. Instead—and to this day I do not know why I did it, but I am glad I did—I grounded my weapon, and then stepped forward, offering him my hand to pull himself up.
Only when he was standing facing me again, his right hand still holding mine and his other gripping my shoulder, did I realize that he was breathing every bit as laboriously as I was. He finally sucked in one great, deep breath and held it for long moments before expelling it again, and when he spoke his voice was close to normal.
"That was well fought, stranger, and it was a task I would not care to undertake again today or any other day. You are . . ." He paused, searching for a word. "Formidable. Yes, that describes you. Formidable. Now that you have thrashed me, will you permit me to ask who are you and whence you come, and who taught you to fight like that?" He released my hand and waved away one of his men, who was trying to attract his attention, and I knew that he genuinely wanted to hear my answers.
"My name is Clothar," I said, looking him in the eye and seeing the black flecks in the tawny gold of his irises. "I am a Frank, from southern Gaul. A Salian Frank reared among Ripuarians in the south. I was sent here more than a year ago by my patron and mentor, Bishop Germanus of Auxerre, to carry letters and documents to Merlyn Britannicus of Camulod. As for the fighting, I went for six years as a student to the Bishop's School in Auxerre, and the stable master, Tiberias Cato, was a former cavalryman. It was he who, as a much younger man, brought those spears back from the other Empire in the distant east. He, too, it was who taught me how to fight. And now I am here in Camulod awaiting the return of Arthur the Riothamus."
"Arthur? Why do you wait for him? Do you bear letters for him, too? And have you been carrying them about with you for a year and more?"
I smiled. "No, no letters for him. But for years I have been hearing about Arthur Pendragon from Bishop Germanus, who heard of him through Merlyn. And now that my mission for the bishop is complete and the bishop himself is dead, I intend to offer my sword and my services to Arthur, if he will have me."
"Oh, he will have you. Never fear on that."
Something in the way he spoke the words prompted me to ask, "How can you be so sure?"
He grinned again. "Because I know. I can speak for the Riothamus. What did you say your name was?"
"Clothar."
"Aye, Clothar. It is . . . different. I've never heard that name before."
"It is common enough where I come from, and it is purely Frankish. Am I permitted to ask your name?"
He grinned, showing white, even teeth. "If I tell you my name will you show me the secret of your spears?"
I knew he was baiting me, gulling me in some manner, but I could not see how and I shook my head, smiling still but now uncertain of what was happening here. "I have already said I would. I said so before we fought."
"That's true, you did." He drew himself up straight, and his smile was open and forthright. "Come, then, return to Camulod with us. I am Arthur Pendragon, and men call me Riothamus, the High King of Britain, but that is only a title. I have yet to earn the right to it, and fill in the truth behind it, and I fear I have a long way to go before I can admit to the name without feeling inadequate. But my given name is Arthur, and I am the chief of Pendragon, and so be it you were serious about joining with us, I think we two could become friends. What say you, Clothar the Frank?"
My jaw had fallen open as he spoke, and I knew that I was gaping like a simpleton, but now I dropped to one knee in front of him, meaning to kiss his hand as I would a bishop's, but he caught me by the arm and pulled me back to my feet. "No, no, none of that. I have done nothing yet to earn that kind of treatment, and you have newly knocked me on my arse. Folly, then, to follow that by kissing my hand." His smile widened. "When the time comes to swear loyalty to me, I will let you know. For the time being, if you feel a need to be ceremonious, you can call me Magister, as the others do. Now, what about those spears you have? Mil you show me how they are different to ours?"
I had to breathe deeply and calm my racing, exultant heart. I could hear a blackbird piping somewhere among the woods to my right and a thrush singing its heart out behind us and I felt all at once that anything would be possible in this new land to which I had brought my friends with the thought of serving this impressive man. And when I felt able to speak again without quavering, I bowed my head, partly in acknowledgment, partly in respectful awe.
"Aye, Magister," I said, addressing my King thus for the very first time, "I will."
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