Jack Whyte - The Lance Thrower

“I read all the correspondence you brought from Germanus when you first arrived, you know.” I raised my eyebrows politely but said nothing and she went on. “Chulderic took charge of it, of course, when the King died, but he brought it directly to me before allowing anyone else to read it, and I read it all and even absorbed it … . I suppose God in His mercy had buffered me at that point from the full realization of what had happened, but He nonetheless permitted me to read and understand what the Bishop had to say. And then I, in my turn, passed the information on to Samson, who had become king by then, and now Brach has it all.”

Again she paused, and pursed her lips, and this time her head tilted in the other direction. “You must have done very well in school, because the Bishop speaks very highly of you, both in this letter and in the first missives you brought down to us, and it appeared to me in reading all he had to say that he has great things and high-flown tasks in mind for you. But he mentioned most particularly in this letter that you had promised him, before you left Auxerre, that you would return once your errand to the King was complete. Do you recall that promise?”

As she asked the question, she released her grip on one side of the letter and the papyrus snapped shut, curling itself into the rolled shape it had been in for the duration of its long journey from Auxerre to here. I nodded in response, feeling my breast fill up with dismay, for I had been working assiduously to avoid remembering that promise, made first to Germanus and then reiterated to King Ban before he died, and I had almost been able to convince myself that Ban’s death had changed everything and absolved me of the need to be true to what I promised. Almost, however, is an indeterminate and unconvincing word and in the meantime the Queen was watching me closely, waiting for me to answer. I cleared my throat and answered her quietly. “Yes, Aunt,” I said. “I remember making the promise, but—”

“I am glad of that,” she interjected, giving me no opportunity to add to my admission, almost as though she wished to run no risk of hearing me attempt to renege on anything. “Because the Bishop was most emphatic that I should remind you of it. He is aware of how much must have changed in your life, he says, with the death of the King … your uncle … . But it is even more important now, he believes, more important than ever, that you return to Auxerre. He entreated me most specifically to tell you that, and to add my voice to his own in urging you to return north.”

She stopped short, eyeing me resolutely as though defying me to disagree. “You will return there, will you not?”

I had no other option than to nod my head in agreement. “Yes, Aunt Vivienne, I will. But not until my tasks here are complete. I promised Brach that I would not head northward until I had completed the assignment he set me.” I saw no need to add that in heading northward I had been talking of marching against Clodas and Ganis.

“What assignment was that?”

I had half expected her to ask me that and I was ready. “The task of rebuilding Benwick.”

“Rebuilding Benwick?” The beginnings of her old smile flickered at her lips and I felt a rush of love for her and for the Lady Vivienne I remembered. “A Herculean labor, surely, for a man as young as you? I have heard that you are a born leader and a mighty warrior, but a kingdom rebuilder? Are you to rebuild all of it?”

“Well, no,” I answered, feeling, foolish, knowing she was twitting me. “Not all of it. I am not doing it alone. But I did promise, and I am not quite done.”

“And when you are? Done, I mean?”

“Then I shall return to the north, my Lady, to Auxerre and the Bishop.”

She inclined her head graciously. “Then thank you, Nephew Clothar, for that. Now help me to my feet, if it please you.” She reached out imperiously and I stepped forward to take her hand and help her to her feet, where she continued to clutch my fingers as she leaned forward to peer into my face. “You look much like your father,” she murmured. “But you still have your mother’s hair and brows. Now, if you would, you may walk me to my chambers.” I was honored, and walking with my back straight and my shoulders squared, very conscious of her hand resting lightly on my forearm, I led my aunt, the former Queen of Benwick, slowly into the castle and eventually up the long, sweeping staircase to the suite of rooms she had shared for so many years with her husband the King. And yet, walking proudly as I did, I nonetheless felt a tiny squirming of guilt in my gut over the reasons I had given for not returning to Auxerre immediately. I had told my aunt no lies, but I had greatly exaggerated the extent of the few responsibilities I still owed to Brach, because the simple truth was that I had no desire at all to leave Genava. I had fallen in love for the first time in my life and was completely enthralled.

The young woman’s name was Rosalyn, and she was the most beautiful proof of the existence of God that I had ever seen, because logic dictated beyond dispute that perfection such as hers could not exist had God not shaped it personally with His own hands. She was tall and lithe and lissome and lovely, with a wide, laughing mouth and a neck like a swan’s. Our love was pure, for two simple reasons: we never had any opportunity to make it otherwise; and I never found the courage to profess my love to her.

So abjectly did I fail in finding that courage, in fact, that I could barely summon up sufficient nerve to sit in the same room with her and listen to her laughing and talking with her friends. It would have been impossible for me to sit at her feet and talk to her the way I saw other young men doing so effortlessly, making her laugh and singing to her. I could never have found the courage to do that. And yet I know she was aware of me, and she always had a warm and friendly smile for me, and frequently she spoke to me, although only for a short time after we first met. Whenever she did speak to me or ask me a question, I would be overcome with shyness and would stutter and stammer and blush with shame and confusion and frustration. And so, out of kindness, I believe, she stopped addressing me directly.

She was a new arrival to Benwick, I learned within moments of having seen her for the first time. Her father was a merchant of some description and traveled widely. I heard that, and I knew it, and yet I failed somehow to understand that she was likely to move on again as quickly as she had arrived. And so she did, after a month-long stay, and I was devastated. One morning she was simply gone, with her entire family, and no one could tell me where they had gone to, or even which branch of the crossroads they might have taken. Inconsolable, I took to riding off alone and spending days on end in the woods, living on birds and small animals that I had shot or snared.

I had been out for three days on one such occasion and had spent an entire morning fishing bare-handed for trout basking in deep holes beneath river stones before I caught a truly magnificent specimen, scooping it out of the water and throwing it high onto the bank behind me. As I turned to go and collect my prize, the sun struck me square in the face, dazzling me sufficiently to allow me to see only the shape of a tall man suddenly looming above me, his shoulder blocking part of the sun’s orb so that he was thrown into silhouette. Cursing, I scrabbled to one side, clutching for the dagger in my belt, but as I unsheathed it and surged to my feet I was aware of my assailant moving, and then an arm closed around my neck from behind, a strong hand clamped tightly over my wrist, and a familiar voice spoke into my ear.

“Hey, be still! My only thought in coming here was that you might have food enough for both of us.”