Jack Whyte - The Lance Thrower

“He hired you? In what way? And for what?”

“To look after you. And for gold—more gold than I could make in ten years in Carcasso. He hasn’t given it to me yet, but he will tomorrow, in coin. So now I am in the employ of Bishop Germanus of Auxerre, which makes me worthy of respect even in Britain, and he has seconded me to serve under you as his envoy. The only problem I have now is Tristan. I don’t know what to do about him.”

“Tristan?”

“My brother. My youngest brother. Believe it or not, I’m fifteen years older than he is.” Ursus reached inside his tunic and pulled out a much-folded sheet of very fine parchment. “This was waiting for me when I arrived back in Carcasso. It is a letter from my brother, the first letter I have ever received. Don’t ask me how he found me or how the letter reached me, for I have no idea. Someone must have recognized me somewhere, and found out that I was calling myself Ursus, and in some manner the word made its way to Tristan. I have no idea how long ago this was written, or how long it took to reach me, but Tristan was in the legions, stationed in Lutetia, when he wrote it, and he was hoping we might be able to meet again someday. In it he tells me that my father, damn his black heart, died ten years ago, and my brother Simon now rules Montenegra in his place. I liked Simon. He and I were as close as any two in our benighted clan could be. I never knew Tristan at all. He was the smallest tadpole when I left, born to a younger wife after my mother finally died of trying to please and placate the black old boar that I’m named after.”

“How old is he now, then?”

Ursus blinked. “I don’t know. Yes, I do. I’m thirty-seven now, so Tristan must be twenty-two. He says in his letter he joined the legions on his sixteenth birthday and he’s been in for six years, so that would make it right.”

“He’s five years older than me.”

“Aye, that’s about what I would have guessed. Anyway, when I left Carcasso, I decided upon a whim to come up this way to ask about the lad, to see if I could find out where he is nowadays. He might be there still, he might have moved on years ago. I don’t know. But we have to pass by Lutetia on our way to the coast, so if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to stop there and ask about him.”

“Absolutely, of course. How long has it been since you saw him?”

“Hmm … twelve years, at least, perhaps longer. But he will probably have moved on from Lutetia by now. You know what the army’s like.”

“Aye, well, we’ll see when we get there. Now we’d better sleep. It’s late and Germanus leaves at first light. I’m glad you’ll be coming with me to Britain.”

He left and I lay back to think again about the adventures ahead of me, but I must have fallen asleep instantly, for the next thing I was aware of was the predawn crowing of a rooster.

Germanus was in fine fettle as he made his way out of the ancient town that had been the domain of his family for hundreds of years. I was merely one indistinguishable dot in the vast crowd of people who turned out to see him leave and wish him well, and he spent more than an hour moving among the crowd of well-wishers, embracing some and blessing others and thanking all of them for honoring him in this way.

When he spotted me, he came directly to where I stood and grasped me by both shoulders, looking straight into my eyes. “May God be with you, Clothar, my son,” he said. “I will be thinking of you and praying for you every day, that your mission to Merlyn Britannicus might bear fruit and bring great blessings to the people and the land of Britain. Go in peace.” He kissed me on the forehead and began to turn away, then hesitated and turned back to me, his smile widening. “I wore that armor for many years and during many campaigns, you know, and only ever once did I mar it with a scratch. Try to treat it with the same care, will you? No Saxon ax will cut through it, but a hard-swung ax could make a fearful dent in it, and in you for that matter, so promise me, if you will, that you will stay well away from hard-swung axes.”

“I will, Father,” I said, trying to smile despite the swelling lump in my throat. “I will. God bless you.”

He touched me again, cupping my cheek in his hand. “He already has, Clothar. Walk in His light, my son.” And with that he was gone, swallowed up by the crowd.

Later that morning, when the cavalcade was gone and the crowd had dispersed, I went looking for Tiberias Cato and found him, not surprisingly, in the stables among his beloved animals. He waved me to him as soon as I entered the main gates of the horse yards, and when I reached his side he nodded a silent greeting and pointed to a small group of horses in an enclosure close by.

“That one,” he said. “The bay. That’s the mount I picked out for the boy Bors. As your servant, he’ll have no need of a prancing warhorse, but that animal will be perfect for him. It’s sound and solid, and what it lacks in beauty it makes up for in willingness. The beast has a tractable nature, with enough strength and stamina to do anything he will require of it. It will carry him and a full load all day and every day if that’s what is required. The other one behind it, the gray gelding, is his packhorse. Same attributes, same stamina, merely less sweet to look upon. Have you decided yet to take him with you?”

“Bors? No, I haven’t even met him yet and know nothing about him other than what Bishop Germanus told me last night.”

“What more do you need to know, then? If Germanus vouches for him, how can you doubt the lad?”

“I don’t. I was merely pointing out that I have not met him yet. I think I may remember his face, but I won’t know until I see him.”

“Well, that’s easily remedied.” He shouted to a small boy who was cleaning out a stall behind him, bidding him drop what he was doing and run to the school, where he was to find Brother Michael’s class and ask the teacher to send the boy Bors back here to meet with Magister Cato. When the lad had scampered away, he turned back to me.

“I took the liberty of picking mounts for you and your companion Perceval, too. Didn’t think you would object to that. Come, I’ll show them to you.” As he led me back to where he had sequestered four horses for our use, he continued talking about Bors.

“He was always a bright student, right from the outset, and I knew that from the first day I set eyes on him, but everything about him’s different now, and none of the changes have improved him. Mind you, there’s a part of me that can’t really blame the lad, because he’s been through more misfortunes than many a grown man goes through in a lifetime. But still, enough is enough.

“It started with the news of his parents’ death. That would normally be enough to bring down any man—I mean, it happens to all of us, but none of us are ever ready for it when it occurs and it’s always devastating. But then a second messenger arrives, hard on the heels of the first one, this second one bearing the tidings that the remainder of his family—his entire clan—had been wiped out by the pestilence, along with three quarters of the population of the small town they had lived in.”

Cato sniffed loudly and braced one of his feet against the bottom rail of the paddock. “That second message is what did the boy in. Until it arrived, he had been grief-stricken and very normal in how he reacted and behaved. After he heard the news about the rest of his family being dead too, however, he changed completely. He grew bitter and resentful, and noisy in his bitterness. He started questioning the very existence of God, demanding to know how anyone could believe in the goodness of any God who could allow such things to happen … .