“One of the old Batavian lads. I know him well—soldiered here so long he couldn’t be bothered to go home when the rest of them did. Besides, he has a wife and bairns, and he says the weather’s notthatmuch worse here than—”
“Yes, I see. But who gave it to him?”
“The skipper of a trading boat from Londinium, he said. Andhehad it from a tin merchant all the way from Cerniw, he claimed, although that must be a story.”
“Why?”
Bryn shook his head pityingly. “Everyone knows the Cerniw tin comes from dragons. They lay it with their eggs, and burn up any man foolish enough to come near them with their fiery breath.”
Lance seemed delighted by this information, or by something. He was ablaze with joy, and suddenly looked like the son of a king despite the mud in his hair. He thrust up a hand, took hold of Bryn’s and shook it vigorously. “Thank you for this. Thank you!”
He turned away. Bryn frowned in confusion. “Here,” he called after him. “Don’t you want your tup?”
“What? Oh! Yes, of course.” He beckoned to one of the workers in the nearest field, who climbed the wall and began to make his way through the bleating flock. Then he put his hand to his chest, and offered the drover a shy, formal bow. “You must stop for a while. Water your beasts, and if you go to the kitchen, my housekeeper Edern will give you a meal and some wine.”
Bryn raised an eyebrow. The last time he’d passed through here, this boy had been a lanky-limbed pup, barely distinguishable from the rest of the litter. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, but if Lance heard, he gave no sign. He was walking away, absently pushing the sheep to one side, the birch-strip letter cradled reverently in his free hand.
***
“Father Tomas! I need your help.”
“You do indeed, child, or the kingdom of heaven is closed to you. Have you come to me to shrive your heathen soul?”
“Er... no. Not exactly.” A pile of Roman epistolary birch-strips landed on the page Tomas was reading, obscuring the text. “I need you to read these.”
Tomas sat up. His back was aching, his eyes sore. He’d been oblivious to these bodily discomforts all the time he’d been left undisturbed with the satisfying story of God’s vengeance at Gomorrah. “Why must you pester me? Don’t you have work about the farm?”
“I do, but I’ve had...” Lance tailed off to catch his breath. “I’ve had a letter, and I can’t read it. Please.”
“Can’t read it? Have I not, by your own most unexpected request, spent hours every night instructing you?”
“Yes, you have. But he... Arthur doesn’t write like the scribes who made your books.”
“This letter is from the prince?”
“It is. It’s from the prince, to me. Please, Father.”
“The prince was very kind during his visit. His foster father Ectorius paid me particular kindly attention. I shall always remember it.”
The bible was laid out on Tomas’s little lectern, in the draught-free corner of the chapel where he liked to retreat at sunny noontides. A shameful indulgence, he supposed, but the chapel’s one window was filled with blue-green Roman glass, and the warmth and the underwater shimmer of the light was soothing to the flesh and the mind. Tomas gave a croak of dismay as bible, birch and lectern disappeared, to be replaced a moment later by Lance himself, passionately kneeling at his feet.
The croak became a dried-up laugh. “Miracles in our days! That’s the first time your stubborn knees have bent in this place.”
“I know. I don’t understand the things you preach, Father, and I don’t think I ever will. Don’t make me say I’ll come here and kneel and pretend, because I will, if that’s what I have to do.”
“Of course not. Of what value would that be to me?” Tomas examined the first of the birch strips. “The prince writes in a courtly hand.”
“Oh, no. Can’t you read it either?”
“Insolent! You think I’ve had no dealings with courtly men? I was at the shrine of Brocolitia, you know, after—”
“After the Emperor Theodosius ordered the temple of Mithras there destroyed. Yes, I know. Is this how they wrote, then—the learned men you knew there?”
“Hmm. A little.” Tomas turned the strip sideways, then upside down. “This is what I would call averyfree hand, but it’s befitting to someone of the prince’s station.Carissime Tertie, he begins. That’s you, Lance, and he properly refers to you by your formal name.Tertieis the vocative singular of Tertius, althoughcarissime—most dear—is very informal indeed. Hmm.”
“Really? Most dear?”
“And he goes on,quamquam semper Lance meum...”
