Then he turned, and his heart dropped into his boots. Lance was there on the outcrop where he’d left him. Standing over him, complete with horse, weaponry and three tall grooms, was Sir Ector.
***
“Inexcusable. Irresponsible, feckless, unjustifiable.”
Lance tried to sit up. He’d been comfortably propped on the grooms’ saddlebags, given water and wine by Sir Ector’s own hands. He’d attempted several times to intervene, but to no avail so far. The old knight was punctuating each of his words with a poke at Guy’s chest with one forefinger. “Sir Ector,” Lance cried out in desperation. “It was my fault just as much as Art’s, and Guy’s fault not at all. I lost the sword, and Art knows what it means to me. He went to fetch it.”
Ector spared him a glance. Then he swivelled back to face Guy. “Unforgivable!” Another poke, hard enough to rock sturdy Guy on his feet. “Hours past your time of return, and no sign of any of you. That sharp-eyed old priest it was who saw the flash of sword-blades up here, and raised the alarm. The Picts! A raid! The whole damn village up in arms, or hiding under their beds, according to their nature. I take to horse, and come up here like thunder with these good lads to rescue my sons and this prince from the jaws of the invader, and what do I find? Squabbling boys! My fine Balana with skinned knees, and...” He ran out of breath. After a moment he looked at Lance again. The life seemed to drain out of him. “The sword is lost?”
Lance made one last effort. “It was I who hurt Balana,” he said. “Forgive me, Sir Ector—all this is down to me. As for the sword...”
“I have it!” Guy interposed, his voice cracked and raw. “I have the sword, Father. Here, Lance—take it.”
Sir Ector’s arm fell to his side. When he spoke again, he sounded like himself once more, but chastened and ashamed. “For God’s sake, Gaius. That’s good, but... where is my boy?”
“On his way up, Father. He isn’t hurt.”
Stiffly Lance took the blade from Guy. As soon as his fingers closed round the hilt, he felt the cold recede from his limbs, felt new life stir in him. He remembered the touch of a hand which had somehow come warm from the depths of the lough. “Thank you, Gaius. Had it fallen far?”
Guy glanced nervously at his father, who nodded curt permission to proceed. “The strangest thing happened. The sword fell into a crevasse. I... I pulled it free.”
Lance was a rotten liar, but Gaius was worse. Lance wondered if he’d ever before in his life told a deliberate untruth. He was bullfinch-red from his brow to the neckline of his shirt.
Sir Ector, instead of exploding once more with rage, took him gently by the shoulders with both hands. “Is that what really happened, dear Guy?”
“Yes, sir. I...”
“Father Ector?”
The whole group turned, Lance twisting round as far as he could to see. Arthur struggled back onto the crest. He was dishevelled and grazed, and looked as if the climb had taken the last of his strength. Nevertheless he lifted a hand to wave at them all, and flashed Guy a rueful, self-mocking smile.
Guy closed his eyes in shame. “Father,” he said. “I am a vain fool. The sword was caught between two rocks. I tried and tried, but could not pull it out. Then Arthur put one hand to it and lifted it free. The earth shook, and I heard a huge, strange voice singing, and now the sun shines more brightly than it did before. I don’t understand these things,” he finished humbly. “I told a lie. I wanted to be part of it all—this strangeness, this miracle—but I am not. Am I?”
At Ector’s gesture, the grooms ran to help Art. Then the old man put his arms around his son. “Let me tell you what you are,” he said roughly, as Guy hid his face on his shoulder. “You are my Gaius, my firstborn. My good, brave boy.”
Art stumbled over. He looked at his father and Guy in dismay, then dropped to his knees beside Lance. “Are you all right?”
Before anyone could stop him, Lance pushed up: got onto one knee, using the sword as a dangerous prop. Once he was steady, he held it out to Art. “This is yours,” he said. “Your brother knows it, and your father too. The very earth knows it, Arthur. Take your own.”
He held on for long enough to see in Arthur’s eyes the scared child, who’d fled his destiny at every turn and been run to ground at last on these northern moors, on the dragon’s spine, bow his head and let the cloak of adulthood descend upon his shoulders. In unbreathing silence they shared the knowledge of how much that garment would weigh—how magnificent it was, how crushing, how impossible to remove. A shudder passed through Arthur, a last flash of grief and rebellion, and then he reached to take the sword.
It was done, and Lance, knowing his duty discharged, dropped back to the rock, the grey edge of a faint threatening his vision. The day became ordinary. Art, promptly practical, shoved the sacred blade into his old sword’s scabbard. “Quick,” he said, glancing up at his father and Guy. “Let’s get that leg set while he’s too weak to fight us off.”
Chapter Fifteen
Earlier that day, Lance had instructed Edern and his family to prepare a fine dinner for the departing Roman guests. He didn’t see why a broken leg should interfere with that, or any of his other duties, and so he fashioned himself a crutch from one of Elena’s brooms, and as the sun was setting in red-gold splendour over the crags to the west, he set off on his usual inspection of the village boundaries.
For once—on the subject of red-gold splendour, he wryly recognised—the prince of Cerniw didn’t appear from the shadows of an alley or the stables to accompany him. Lance was sorry. This would be their last time. Arthur had given him a ride home on Hengroen’s majestic back, leading the stallion contritely by the rein. After doctoring Balana, the prince had brought Lance a draught of poppy mead and served it to him with his own hands. Although he’d been gone when Lance woke, through the poppy’s kindly veils he’d been aware of his presence, silent and watchful by the bed.
They would have time, he and Art. Lance reached the eastern edge of the settlement, the bare stretch of land where Father Tomas had built his church, and time seemed to spread out like a richly laid board before him, each shadowed valley a chalice brim-full of the joys and adventures he and his prince would share.Much use I’d be to you like this, he’d tried to protest on the way back down from the crags, but Sir Ector himself had leaned to pat his shoulder.We’re only going as far as Caer Lir, lad. You can rest and heal there before we head south.
South, to the Forest Wild, where trees grew to five times the height of a man, and Art’s great fortress of Cam would rise beside the river! Where golden sunlight flickered in silent glades, and there would be other lake shores, and the prince of Cerniw would once more say to him,I would choose you. Give me your skin and bone, your seed.
Lance shivered. He offered a silent prayer of apology to his lost older brothers, who’d pursued their dairy maids and strapping farm lads with a determination that had made him laugh. Oh, he’d been a child then, hadn’t he, a caterpillar, deaf and blind, sound asleep in childhood’s dream...
His leg was aching, so he made his way over to the steps of the church and sat down. He’d broken bones before, and was aware of how expertly his shin had been set. Sir Ector had said he’d be taught the arts of battlefield medicine, as well as many other skills and graces. He’d thought himself sophisticated to be able to speak Latin, but Arthur and Gaius could read it too, an accomplishment beyond his imagination. Sir Ector had a whole roomful of enormous leatherbound books, their parchment pages overflowing with tales of strange travels and encounters with mythical beasts beyond the seas.
Only a handful of books were left at Vindolanda, although Ban had used to tell stories of the praetor’s house at the height of its glory. Only Father Tomas ever touched them, and kept them hidden in a chest beneath a slab in the chapel whenever they was out of his hands. Belatedly Lance noticed that the old priest was present and reading now, perched on a bench in the doorway of the church. With his bowed head and earth-brown robes, he almost disappeared against the candle-lit darkness within.
