“And the little rat beside him is his eldest, Prince Garbonian, who now owes me a horse, thanks to you, dear Lance.”
Guy had made no effort to keep his voice down. Just for a moment, Arthur glanced up from his pose of polite attention to the old man’s speech. Lance read the message of pained amusement, of reproach—and then Art’s focus widened. He jerked up his head. A vast smile cracked his solemn mask.
Coel tailed off into silence. Then he shifted on his throne, banged his staff and growled, “If I am boring you, sire, please do feel free to let me know.”
Arthur turned back to him instantly. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.” His smile was fading, but it remained in his voice as he added, loud enough for Guy to hear, “I did ask my guards to keep out the louts and layabouts. Will you please go on?”
“Very well. As I was saying… I must deal with my kingdom’s troubles in the north and west before I can think of joining your campaign against the Saxons, lad, noble though it is. I had hoped that you’d divert some of your forces to assistme.”
Arthur nodded. Lance, up in the galleried distance, noticed even from there how he did not immediately respond, how he took the words and thought about them, unashamed to be seen to be taking his time. “I understand,” he said. “It may be that we have to fight our separate wars, Coel Hen, for the time at least. I would help you gladly if my numbers were greater.”
“Did I ask you to spare me a whole army, boy?” Coel got stiffly to his feet and leaned on his staff. He looked as if lightning was ready to strike from under his grizzled brows. “A few raiding parties, that’s all, some good actors who’ll go up there in the guise of Picts or these damned Scots, stir up trouble and create divisions between them. That’s my only hope of keeping my borders secure in the north.”
“With respect, sire, that won’t work. I’ve seen them. They’ll squabble amongst themselves day and night—until an outsider provokes them, and then they’ll drop every blood feud and cattle war they have, and come together like brothers to fight a common enemy.”
“Me, you mean.”
“Yes, sire.”
Coel’s reputation had reached Lance, even in the wilds of Vindolanda. He was a stern, stubborn old warrior, and all his life he had upheld Roman interests against the incursions of the native tribes. It would be his instinct to bring them down by any means at his command. But he was an able administrator, too, a statesman and legislator, and whether or not he liked it, plainly he could hear the sense in the young king’s words. “Very well,” he growled. “What is your suggestion, then, Artorius?”
Before Art could reply, the occupant of the throne next to Coel’s rose smoothly to his feet. This was Garbonian, the king’s eldest son. Watching, Lance wondered at his own instant surge of dislike, then saw it reflected in Arthur’s expression, and wondered still more. The prince of Din Guardi was as fine and mannered as his father was rough. When he laid a hand to old Coel’s shoulder as if to restrain him, Coel snarled like a bear and shook him off. Garbonian retreated, palms raised wryly, eliciting a small wave of laughter among the men opposite. Art, who had certain ideas about filial duty, frowned at him. “You should not raise mirth against your father, prince,” he warned.
Garbonian shrugged. “It wasn’t intended,” he said easily. “The fact is that I agree with you, Artorius. We shouldn’t engage the Picts and Hibernians at all in their own territory. That war is lost.” Coel glared at him, but Garbonian turned away and addressed the whole room, spreading his pale, well-manicured hands as if to invite support. “We Britons can only defend our own heartlands, now that the Romans have abandoned us. And the means to do so lies within our grasp.”
Coel reddened. “Damnation, Garb! Did I not forbid you to spew out your treachery inside this hall? Bad enough I have to hear you over dinner. I won’t have Artorius think the House of Coel supports this nonsense.”
“Sire,” Arthur interjected gently, when the old man paused to draw breath. “I would never assume the prince’s views are yours. But we agreed—did we not?—that all men should be heard.”
“Hah,” Coel grunted. “Youdemandedthat, then wouldn’t take no for an answer, as I recall.” But he subsided wearily onto his throne. “Speak, then, Garbonian.”
The prince gave a small, sarcastic bow of thanks. “I’m much obliged to you, Father, and to His Majesty of Cerniw. The truth is, gentlemen, that we cannot control the ancient tribes. Nor can we stem the tide of invaders from over the sea.” He waited until the outraged mutters of dissent had subsided. “That’s the truth of the matter. I don’t like it any more than you do, but my answer is simple. Let us set our enemies one against the other. These Anglian settlers may be unpolished, but they’re fine soldiers. And they love the sight of gold. I propose that we treat with them—use them, employ them to protect us, and repay them in coin and in settlement rights.”
Instantly the hall was full of murmuring voices. Lance felt a change in the air like the coming of a storm: his nape and his skin prickled. Out of the dangerous rumble, Coel’s great voice boiled up, deep and harsh. “You’re a fool, my son. And your proposal will cut all our throats for us. However…” He paused, shaking his head. “I might even have considered it, if I believed for a moment that you’d thought it up yourself.”
The rumble became a roar. Laughter was woven through it: Garbonian’s milky skin had mottled puce with embarrassment. Arthur gestured the crowd to silence, but his eyes were cold. To Lance, that made him look like a stranger, and he wondered if it was Ector’s death that had driven such iron into his soul. “Your father is right,” he said to Garbonian. “Ihaveinsisted that everyone be heard, even when that goes against my own inclination. Continue.”
“Very well,” said the prince. “I’m not ashamed that I use the words of men wiser than myself. You must all know that this is the policy of King Vortigern of Elmet in the south. You, father, with your nostalgic dreams of Roman rule, should not oppose it. It is simply afoederatus, such as the Roman administrators on the island made for centuries with the tribes. And it has worked well. He has used the Saxons not only against the raiders in the west but against their own kind, arriving by sea! They are savage fighters, cowed by nothing.”
Lance looked quickly at the men around him. They were all dressed as Art was, in the rich, muted colours of the Cerniw court. They must have marched north with him, fought with him in heaven only knew how many battles. They hadn’t liked Garbonian’s final words one bit, and were issuing an array of snorts and other derisive noises. Guy, with greater rights to express himself, clapped his hands to his knees and let go a wild, hooting laugh.
Arthur stood quietly, arms folded over his chest, letting the reaction run its course. Then he raised his head, and his men—Guy, too—knew him well enough to fall silent without being told. “You’re partly correct, Garbonian,” he said. “But your news is old. I gained mine two moons ago, when my army engaged these very same Saxons, who broke treaty with Vortigern when he could no longer pay their raging demands for gold and land. I tell you with shame that we were defeated, driven back by their greater numbers. You are quite right—they will turn on their own kind. Their hearts are as empty as their pockets are full. I have heard you, but I do not advise you to speak kindly of Saxons—or of Vortigern—in front of my men.”
Lance expected Garbonian to sit back down. If Art had turned so icy a gaze upon him, he wouldn’t have known how to bear it. But Garbonian seemed unruffled. He took a moment or two, as if readjusting his ideas. Then he looked up at Arthur without fear. “Will you permit me to say, Your Majesty, that your views on these newcomers have been coloured by the death of your good stepfather, whose fate I learned with the greatest sadness?”
A faint gasp went through the crowd. Guy’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword. Old Coel surged to his feet and actually caught his son a clip across the shoulder with his staff. “Garb!” he thundered. “You wretched, unfeeling boy.”
Then he turned to Arthur, and stiffly dropped down on one knee before him. “Artorius,” he growled. “Forgive this insult to your grief. Forgive my child. I was much away on campaign during his youth, and left his upbringing to fools and women.”
Art leaned down to him. Something in the movement caused him to pale more deeply than Garbonian’s words had done, but still he hoisted the old man back to his feet. “It’s forgiven,” he said, loudly enough for everyone assembled to hear. Then he turned to Garbonian with a calm, pleasant smile. “It’s forgiven. But if your tongue ever forms my father’s name again, sir, I’ll cut it from your head. Finish what you have to say, and be quick about it.”
Garbonian looked less startled by the threat than by the chance to carry on. Lance could read him easily: felt, despite his instinctive loathing, a kind of kinship. Lance too had been raised amongst hotheaded tribal aristocrats for whom everything was personal. He had never before seen a leader who refused to let his own feelings sway an argument. Garbonian, Lance, Guy, the gathered soldiers—everyone here was witnessing, would be forced to acknowledge, a new kind of kingship.
But Garbonian had learned something else too. Lance could see it in the very blandness of his expression: he was stowing away the discovery that Arthur could be hurt. Quickly he resumed the floor. “Yes, Your Majesty. The shame is mine, that I didn’t know of the Elmet uprising. But things are different with us here in the north. For one, there aren’t so many incomers, and never will be. Further, apart from a handful of pirates, they are most of them settlers anyway. We couldn’t stop it when they arrived, and now they have lands of their own to take care of. We should use that to our advantage.”
“So you… seek an alliance?”
“I don’t know if I’d dignify it with that word. They’re not our equals. But a treaty, an arrangement…”
