“Oh.” The two exchanged a glance, in startled acknowledgement of what this moorland prince had endured. Then Ector recovered his poise. “Listen, Art. Put your trust in time. I’m sorry you’ve grown up in such a blasted thorn-patch of myths and prophecies, but the good side is this—the Merlin said you have all kinds of wonders to achieve before you die.”
“And so far I’ve done nothing.”
“I wouldn’t put it so harshly, but... well, I’m happy to think we aren’t about to lose you just yet. And whatever unnatural winter has plagued this land, it’s gone. They won’t have another like it.”
“How can you know such a thing?”
“Because of the blasted myths and prophecies. You have achieved one of your wonders.The blighted land shall blossom in the wake of the future king.” Art’s face became such a picture that Ector began to laugh. “Don’t look so thunderstruck, boy—it’s just as your brother likes to tease you. The sun really does shine out of your royal behind.”
***
“He’s not taking no for an answer. You’ll have to keep the damn horse. Just try not to eat her, that’s all.”
“I swear it.”
Arthur had taken the reins from Marcus and put them into Lance’s hand. The groom had gone to hold Sir Ector’s horse by the mounting block, and Balana, as if kindly disposed to her new master, had swung her broad flank to shield him and Arthur from the rest of the yard.
Arthur took Lance’s face between his hands. He kissed him: gently, thoroughly, full on the mouth, tasting of promises and salt. “I will write to you.”
Lance stared at him. The salt had been from his own tears. Fiercely he scrubbed them away. “I can’t bloody read.”
“You have a priest, haven’t you?” Art shot one savage glance in Tomas’s direction. “What use are they, if not for teaching? Bloody well learn.”
Chapter Seventeen
One day in autumn, just as the fields had been scythed of the last of their gold, a letter arrived in the village.
Like all such messages, this one had reached its destination by a mixture of goodwill and pure chance. The drover who’d brought it from Pons Aelius had never seen such a thing before: five thin squares of birch bark, neatly tied with leather, the knot encased in a crimson wax seal. He’d thrown it into his horse’s pack, where over the next five days it had become buried beneath the farrier’s tools, sheep cures and packages of herbs he’d purchased on his journey to sell, along with his flock, in the market at Caer Lir.
Lance stood thigh-deep in sheep. He was making rapid calculations. The summer had been long and dry, the barley crop good. The drover had two fine rams amongst his ewes. Allowing for the winter needs of the village, for bread and the seeds of next year’s crop... “Give me one of those tups, Bryn, and by the time you get back from the west, I’ll have six bags of grain for you.”
The drover scratched his head. He’d known Lance for many years. He’d heard about the Pictish raid and was sorry for the lad, although at a glance, the vicus seemed tidier and better organised than ever it had been in Ban’s time. Still, business was business. “What, one of my white-faced hornless, still as pure as the day they stepped off the Roman ships?”
“That’s right. They breed well with our little brown soays, and the lambs give good wool and meat and are tough enough to survive up here. What do you say?”
“Ten bags.”
“Seven.”
“Lad, you’ll have a beast in the flesh, while I have to hope that no raiders come to burn your barns, fine and...” The drover shielded his eyes to peer through the open door of the nearest building. “Fine and full as they are. Your soays look half-decent, too. How did you come by so many?”
The boy’s face clouded. “They were a gift. From friends who saw that our fields were almost empty after the long winter.” He pushed the shadows aside. “Come on, Bryn. You won’t find better grain between here and the coast.”
“Nine bags.”
“Eight bags.”
“Done. And because it’s you, I’ll throw in this cure for the bloat from the cunning woman down in Rivers Meet. Never been known to fail, the old girl says.” He reached deep into his saddle pack. “Oh, and... this thing, too. One of the old boys still holding on at Pons Aelius fort said it should go to you, or someone at White Meadows, anyway.”
Lance took the leatherbound package from Bryn’s hand. He blew wisps of wool and grain-dust off it, turned it into the bright morning sun. “Tertius,” he said, squinting at the scrawl of fading ink on the uppermost leaf.“Tertius, filius Bani, rex Vindolandae.” He looked up in wonder. “Tertius, son of Ban, king of Vindolanda. That’s me!”
Bryn looked him over doubtfully. He was dressed for a hard day in the fields, and one of the ewes was chewing contentedly at the hem of his tunic. “If you say so. What do you think it is, then?”
“Why, it’s anepistola. A letter.”
Bryn had travelled many times along the line of the old Wall, and felt he knew a thing or two. “Bless you, no. You get your epistolas on parchment, don’t you? Or vellum, if it’s definitely calfskin.”
“There’s too many uses for animal hides to leave much over for writing. The soldiers stationed here used strips of birch, my father said. Who did you say gave this to you?”
