Jack Whyte - The Lance Thrower

I knew this was a test, designed to make me speak first out of fear and uncertainty, and so I sat still, determined not to be the first to break the silence, and finally the stranger spoke, his voice sounding hollow and reverberating as it emerged from the cavern of his helmet.

“Who are you, whence come you, and what is your business here in Camulod?”

So, I thought, we are within Camulod at last. I nodded and sat straighter, forcing myself to speak slowly and clearly. “My name is Clothar of Benwick in Gaul, and I come bearing messages and gifts for Merlyn Britannicus of Camulod from his friend Germanus, Bishop of Auxerre, also in Gaul. Behind me are my traveling companions, Perceval and Tristan of Montenegra, and my attendant, Bors. To whom am I speaking?”

“To one who has met Germanus and heard him promise to return here in person.” The helmeted head with its high crest tilted slightly to one side. “Tell me, if you will, why I should believe you have come here from Gaul. Did you swim here, horses and all?”

“No, we came by sea, hoping to land at Glastonbury, but we were blown beyond it by the storms.” My mind was racing, searching for information that I could present to this man that would assure him of our amity yet reveal nothing of our true business here. I knew he was not really suspicious of us. Our very openness in approaching him from behind must have made it clear to him we had no wish to conceal ourselves. But I knew, too, that I had to say something to justify our presence and to establish our bona fides.

“You have met Germanus. Are you then familiar with the name of Enos?”

“Aye, Enos of Verulamium. Another bishop.”

“But a Britannian bishop, is he not?”

“Britannian? If by that you mean he is a Briton then aye, he is.”

“Well, I bear dispatches in the form of letters from Germanus in Auxerre to Enos in Verulamium, concerning matters which the two of them discussed last year in conjunction with Merlyn Britannicus when last they met—in Verulamium, just before Merlyn had to leave in haste because of the word that Horsa’s Danes had sailed for Cornwall.”

The man facing me reached up slowly to his chin with one hand and pulled upward on the end of a short cord that hung there, releasing a metal pin that held the flaps of his helmet together, and as they fell apart he reached higher and pulled the helmet from his head, revealing a strong, evenly featured face, dark haired and dark browed, with a long nose, a wide, square jaw and a mouth that suggested strength of will and good humor. It was the face of a veteran soldier, secure and confident of his own abilities. He flicked a drip of rainwater from the end of his nose with the tip of a forefinger and inclined his head slightly in a grave and courteous acknowledgment that he accepted what I had said.

“Philip,” he said. “Philip Rider, they call me, commander of the Fourth Wing of the cavalry forces of Camulod. Welcome to our lands. Where did you land, the river port?”

“Aye, the place called Glevum. Can you tell me where I might find Merlyn Britannicus?”

“No, Master Clothar, I cannot. I can tell you where you will not find him, however, and that is in Camulod. He was there for a few months, but he left some time ago and told no one where he was going. He told some of his closest friends that he will be away for some time—for as long as it may take’ was what he actually said, although no one knows what ‘it’ is—and he could, or he would, give them no idea of when he might return.”

He hesitated, then added, “As to where he went, he could have gone anywhere. Merlyn prefers his own company nowadays, would rather be alone, they say, since his misfortunes in Cambria last year.”

“What misfortunes are those?”

The man called Philip frowned. “He almost died in Cambria, was thrown into a fire there and badly burned.”

“Thrown into a fire? By whom?”

Philip almost smiled. “A mad whoreson called Carthac, big and ugly and evil and as strong as ten good men. They thought he was unkillable, invincible. He thought so, too, until Merlyn killed him. But before he died he threw Merlyn into a fire. Arthur arrived shortly after that, leading us, and we were able to save Merlyn’s life. Took him home on a wagon and nursed him back to health. But as soon as he could move freely, he left again, and as I say, no one knows where he went.”

“Are your wars over?”

That earned me a quizzical look that told me Philip found it difficult to accept that anyone would have to ask such a thing. “For this year, you mean? Aye, they seem to be. There’s peace in Cambria, to the north of here—Carthac was the festering thorn there, and with his death things soon died down. And in Cornwall to the south, the troublemaker was a man called Ironhair. But he seems to have fallen out with his henchman, Horsa, who hanged him for his troubles.” A tiny smile flickered at the edges of his mouth. “So there’s peace in these parts, at least. But then there is continuing war against the Saxons to the east, although some won’t come out and call it that. The Saxons are a permanent curse and the confrontation out there is more of a chronic condition than a state of war. North and south, though, Camulod is at peace for the moment.

“Our leader, Arthur, is on a grand sweep to the north and east, far beyond our lands, showing the banners and the cavalry of Camulod in other parts of the land in the hope of rallying people to stand up together and confront the Oudanders—Saxons and Jutes and Danes and all the other hordes swarming on the eastern side of Britain.” He waved a hand to indicate the men behind him. “We are but the advance party of a full cavalry wing of a thousand mounted troopers, coming less than a mile behind us. A strong force, but our mission is peaceable. We ride merely to show our strength, patrolling our territories.”

I nodded, thinking rapidly. “I see. And Arthur Pendragon rides to the north and east, you say. Where is he now, exactly, do you know?”

Philip made a wry mouth. “No one will be able to answer that question until Arthur himself returns with the word of it. He has been gone for two months and more. He could be anywhere by now.”

“And Merlyn would not be with him?”

Now the man looked puzzled. “Why would Merlyn be with him? Arthur’s no longer a student. He’s a commander of cavalry in his own right, commander of the First Wing. He looks after his responsibilities and Merlyn looks after his own. Besides, Merlyn could not have known which way Arthur went, other than north, because Arthur left from Cambria, while Merlyn was still abed in Camulod, recovering from his wounds.”

“Hmm,” I grunted, thinking deeply about what we should do next. “Thank you, Philip Rider. Can you show me the shortest way to Camulod from here? And this damnable rain, does it ever stop?”

Philip flashed a smile. “Why, man, it seldom starts at all. It will blow by within the next day or two, and the weather will turn fine again before winter sets in, you wait and see. And as for, the route to Camulod, that’s easy. Simply follow this road south from here until you reach a garrisoned town called Ilchester. They’re our people there, and they’ll point you in the right direction. You should stay here, however, until our thousand pass you by. I’ll leave a decurion with you to explain your presence to Commander Rufio, and after that you can proceed. Now, if you will permit me, I have to make up time and distance.”

He slipped his helmet back onto his head and saluted me, bringing his clenched fist to his left breast, then turned his horse around and gave the signal to the men in front of him. In a matter of moments they had regrouped, leaving only one of their number with us, and were cantering away from us.