“I used to think sometimes that Art fought for the fun of it, or the principle—Britons versus Saxons, all that. Well, there’s blood on it now for him. He misses the old man, but he won’t talk about it, and other matters trouble him too...” He shook his head. “Never mind. Come along, and let’s get out of this cold.”
Lance rode on at his side, up through the last of the dunes and onto the meadows at the foot of Din Guardi rock. Now that he needn’t draw every breath in fear for Art’s life, he had to learn the story of his friend’s presence here, so that he could find his place and begin to make himself useful. “I’ll help in any way I can. How long have you been here?”
“Almost three months now. We came at the request of Coel the Elder—Coel Hen, in the old tongue. He used to rule over this whole land of Bryneich, from Din Guardi to the river Thuaigh in the north. The Romans even made himDux Britanniarum, he was so useful to them.”
Lance knew about the covetedducesposts. Once the Romans could no longer spare their own men to hold them, they had begun to offer them as a reward to whichever of the brawling British kings would best support them, and Ban had held out hopes. “That’s a fine thing, isn’t it?”
“Certainly used to be. Coel’s losing his grip on his dukedom, though. He’s got Pictish raiders in the north, tribes pouring in from Hibernia in the west, and Anglian pirates washing up from the east every day. He’s got so many troubles, and his face is so long, that some of my lads made up a song about him.Old King Coel, they call it.”
Lance grinned. “I think I heard the children singing that in one of the villages we passed.”
“Well, he’s not a merry old soul, and he’s liable to prove it with an axe. When he heard that Arthur was travelling north with an army, he offered us shelter at Din Guardi and treated for talks with him. The trouble was, Coel thought Art was a potential recruit forhiswar, not vice versa.”
“Oh. What did Arthur do?”
“He summoned the lords of Ebrauc to the south—Eboracum, the Romans called it—and of Rheged, from the mountains and lakes in the west, to take part in the debate. Mor and Ceneu, their names are, and poor old Coel lies awake at night grinding his teeth at the thought of sharing his castle with them both. They’ve all been enemies since birth.”
“But Coel needs Arthur, so...”
“That’s right. Art’s no more than an upstart, as far as these old codgers are concerned, but men listen to him. There’s the very faint chance of an alliance.”
And that would change everything. Lance and Gaius exchanged a glance of understanding. If the kings of the Old North could set aside their differences, the realm of Britannia might step out of the shadows of a mythic past and become a reality.A dream kingdom only, Viviana breathed in Lance’s memory, but he pushed her cautionary words aside. He was here now. His goals were Arthur’s.
By this time they had reached the outskirts of the Pendragon army’s camp, and Lance looked about him alertly. This would be his home, his life, if he could be useful and earn his place. God knew it looked ordinary enough—rough tents made of sewn leather, mutton being roasted by the cooks over a massive open-air fire, a hubbub of men and horses and servitors from the castle bustling back and forth with messages and pots and pans. But it was huge. Lance put away certain hopes, desires and assumptions, as firmly as he’d hushed Viviana’s voice in his head. He might never see his king, except at a distance or on the battlefield. But a time might come when he could serve him, and that moment, when it came—even if it were only the heartbeat flash of stopping a sword for him—would mean more to Lance than a lifetime as prince of Vindolanda. “Where’s your recruitment tent?” he asked Gaius, looking around. “I’ll go and present myself.”
“What?”
“Your sergeant-at-arms and your quartermaster. I have to go and—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Art would skin me alive. He expects you in the stronghold—your own chambers and everything. Come inside.”
Here at its south end, the great rock crouched down low, like an obedient horse trained for a child to mount. A ditch and earthwork followed its curve, crossed by a narrow, defensible timber bridge. Gaius bellowed to the gatekeepers, who began the laborious task of hauling up a vast portcullis to admit them. “Sorry,” he said to Lance. “We’re having to keep it closed. Do you see those clusters of huts and tents to the west?”
Lance shielded his eyes against the last of the midwinter sun. His heart was beating low and fast with joy, warm blood driving the chill from his fingers. “Aren’t they ours?”
“You’d think so, as close to the castle as that. They’re Anglian. They’re getting bolder every day, and unlike us, if they get cut down, there’s thousands more to sail in and replace them.”
That must be the cause of the dead fields and farmhouses, Lance thought. The gate was up now, Gaius gesturing him through with a smile. “Good heavens,” Guy said suddenly, focussing on his horse. “Is that old Balana?”
“Well, I found myself short of fine Roman warhorses this year, so... yes, it is.”
“She doesn’t look a day older. You’ve cared for her well.” Guy shook his head. “I remember how blisteringly jealous I used to be when Ector gave away anything I thought should one day be mine—especially to poor Art. I envy him nothing now. I only wish the old man was here so I could tell him so.” With an effort he threw the shadows off. “Never mind. We’ll give our horses to the grooms and get some breakfast, and then you should come to the debating hall. It’s the best way to see what we’re up against here, and he’ll expect you to learn. I’m glad you’re come, Lance. He’s bored me blue with the sound of your name for the past three years.”
Chapter Five
For all that, when Gaius ushered him into the great hall, Lance doubted Art would even notice him. He could see nothing but the burly shoulders of warlords and their bodyguards, forming a wall in front of him. Guy tapped his arm, and pointed to a flight of wooden steps to the right of the door. “Up there,” he whispered. “There’ll be room in the gallery, or if not I’ll throw someone out.”
Hesitantly Lance scrambled up. There was just space for two on the end of the first long bench. He sat down quietly, Guy thudding into place beside him a moment later. Then, when he was settled, he dared to raise his eyes.
The hall was no more than a great bare space, but was perched high on the Din Guardi rock, and the sun flooding into it was beautiful. Dozens of small windows pierced its upper courses, just beneath its timber-thatch roof, and through each of these a pale winter radiance was pouring. In the centre, in a pool of dust-moted light, Arthur was addressing the chiefs.
Lance barely recognised him. He was plainly but richly turned out in the full panoply of a Romano-Celtic statesman who might get called onto the battlefield at any minute, and there was no mistaking him for anything other than a king. The boy Lance had known was gone. He had gained about a foot in height and broadened into it: his shoulders were wide beneath his gold-threaded tawny cloak, his stance solid and poised. At his side, in a beautifully worked sword belt and scabbard, Excalibur hung, and did not look decorative.
His hair was long, and a more pronounced shade of red-gold than Lance remembered. He bore no signs of his recent brush with death. Lance, disoriented by travel, wondered if his terrified moorland gallop to get here had been a wild dream. Would he wake up in his makeshift reading room at Vindolanda, ink-stains on his cheek, nothing more to care about than sheep and the pigs in the midden?
He forced himself to concentrate. He and Guy had arrived in the middle of an intense debate. To Art’s left and right, in stiff wooden thrones, sat the kings of Yr Hen Ogledd, the Old North. Lance recognised the tartans of Rheged, of Ebrauc and Srath Chluaidh brightly patterning their britches and cloaks. The eldest of them was speaking now, a rugged old Celt of such grim countenance that Lance knew him at once, and struggled not to laugh. He shot a sidelong glance at Guy, who was grinning broadly and nodding: yes, that was Coel.
