Chapter Two
A year to the day since Tomas had died. Nights growing longer, the longest of all on its way. Slaughtered beasts salted away, precious grain stored in the barns. Vindolanda like a beacon fire, calling out to raiders all around:here am I, full of wealth, defended only by my prince and the handful of farmers he’s trained to lift swords as well as ploughshares. Here am I, such rich pickings, women and children and beasts, protected by such a frail shield. You took me before: here am I.
No man could leave such a place. Lance had grown up with these people, known them and loved them for as long as he’d understood what love was. To leave would be to throw them to the wolves. The thing was impossible: could not be done.
And yet here is Lance in Balana’s lamplit stable, settling her saddle blanket with tender care. You lift it onto the withers first, then draw it back towards the tail, so that the hairs don’t get rubbed the wrong way and irritate her hide. Then you place your prized Roman saddle, supple from years of polishing, on her strong spine. You fasten the girth, wait until she’s tried her trick of bloating herself out—lazy old girl, unwilling to leave her quarters on such a night!—and deflated again, and then you tighten the strap. You check her bridle and her bit.
Lance laid his brow to her neck. Dana was sobbing in the corner. She was the only one who’d dared come in. The open half door of the stable was filled with pale faces, watching in silence. One of them belonged to Guy’s messenger, who’d clearly been coached to treat Lance with respect. “Forgive me, sire. The night is deep, the road dangerous. Don’t you think we should wait until—”
Lance jerked his head up, making Balana snort and sidle. “If I delay by so much as an hour,” he said roughly, “and by such delay cause Arthur an hour’s needless loneliness or pain, may my soul be forfeit.” He fixed a scorching look on the messenger. “Yours, too. Edern! Where is Edern?”
The old housekeeper fought his way to the front of the crowd at the door. “I’m here, Lance.”
“Fetch my father’s old sword and spear from the armoury. When I am gone, you are to take the sword Arthur gave me and sell it at Rivers Meet. The melt value alone will be considerable. Use the money to buy more winter grain if we need it, and to hire men to help with the planting in spring.”
“I will, Lance. But... you’ll be back by then, won’t you?”
Lance couldn’t answer. He led Balana out of the stables and leapt into the saddle like a drowning man finding a rock. If Arthur lived, the threads that bound their destinies together would tighten, would begin once again their intricate weave. And if Arthur died... “Sell the sword. If there’s money left, get some of the lads from the militia at Corstopitum to come up and see you through raiding season. May all the gods bless you, old friend. Goodbye.”
Lance and the messenger clattered out of the courtyard together. Lance didn’t allow himself to glance down at any of the faces, any of the reaching hands. There was just enough moon to travel by, a chilly first quarter hanging high above Hadrian’s old Wall. He turned Balana’s head eastward, touched his heels to her side, and he rode.
***
“That horse of yours—she used to belong to Sir Ector, didn’t she?”
Lance returned with an effort to his skin. He’d been sitting by Art’s bedside in a chamber in Din Guardi, and Art had just opened his eyes. This beat all hell out of the other fantasy, the one in which a white-faced, weeping Gaius showed him into a crypt. “She did,” he said tersely. “Although what business that is of yours, I can’t imagine.”
“You should be kinder to such a noble beast.”
Startled, Lance turned to look at the messenger. The man’s eyes were fixed on him fearlessly. The countryside had changed beyond recognition. The hills had smoothed out to broad flatlands, the turf and gorse of the moors replaced by mile after featureless mile of salt-grass. The eastern sky was pink as wild strawberries. “Where are we?”
“Still on the road the Romans made. It stretches from Pons Aelius to the river the Scots call Uisge Thuaigh, fifty miles north of here. If you gallop for a few more days and nights, you can ride your horse right into the water.”
“Is that the dawn?”
“Yes, sire.”
Lance reined Balana in. She dropped to a trot, then a stumbling walk, then came to a halt and stood wearily, head down. “Heaven forgive me. Ishouldbe kinder—not just to her, but to you. What is your name?”
“Drusus, sire.”
“Pardon my discourtesy, Drusus.”
“You’d better pardon mine, or Gaius will have me publicly flogged.”
Lance smiled despite himself, despite the sick yearning he felt to be moving onwards, closing the gap between himself and Din Guardi at any cost. “Is there a place nearby where we can rest the horses?”
“And ourselves, sire, or we’ll be useless to the very men we so wish to aid. There’s a settlement a little way west of here—Anglian, but they’re not hostile. All manner of traders and travellers pass through here.”
Stiffly Lance dismounted. Only when he was on the ground did he realise his own exhaustion. The horse pushed at him with her nose, a gesture of forgiveness he didn’t deserve. “Go ahead. Not too fast, though—I’m going to lead Balana on the rein.”
Lance had never seen anywhere like the settlement before. In many ways it was primitive, a couple of dozen timber huts roofed in thatch, none of Vindolanda’s crumbling Roman grandeur. The track running through it was made of hardpacked earth, ringing beneath the horses’ hooves after a frosty night. In wet weather it would turn into a swamp. And yet there was a bustle and brightness in the air, even at this early hour. The forge was open for business, the baker shovelling fresh loaves out of an open-air oven. The two streets, marked at their junction by a fine round-headed cross, were already busy with men and women, some dark like himself, others strikingly fair. Most wore wooden pattens and thick tunics against the cold. It was hard to tell who was a villager, who was just passing through. Hard to tell where anyone came from at all.
There wasn’t time to wonder. Lance had taken the messenger’s point, but he didn’t think he could linger here. Drusus and the horses needed rest. For himself, he’d hire a fresh mount and ride on, if he could find anything bigger than a market-cart pony to carry him. He’d barely taken enough gold with him to cover his journey, but surely someone here could help. He drew a breath to ask.
“Here, sire. It’s not much, but at least it’s shelter.”
