Jack Whyte - The Lance Thrower

He stopped, plainly waiting for me to respond, and I nodded wordlessly, hoping to convey an impression of gravity and deep thought that would belie my utter ignorance of what he was talking about, but the bishop was already speaking again.

“So Vortigern claimed the title, and I have heard from several of my brethren that he might have made a noble Riothamus, had he but lived. But then again, I know others who say he was too close to the Pelagians and thus would have stood condemned by the Church. You know who the Pelagians are, I presume?”

“No, sir, I do not. Forgive my ignorance.”

He waved my comment away. “No need for forgiveness, Master Clothar. They were heretics, condemned and banned.”

“You say Vortigern did not live, sir … .”

“No, he didn’t. The Danes killed him, and only recently. He brought about his own undoing, I fear, when first he invited the Danes to live within his bourne.”

“He invited them into his domain and then they killed him?”

“Aye, they did, but not immediately and the tale is much more complex than can be easily explained. But Vortigern sowed the seeds of his own overthrow when he invited the Danes into his domain. He had befriended Hengist, a Danish warrior and leader, when they were both young, and when Vortigern came to rule in Northumbria, still young and hale, he found his kingdom sore beset by raiders who attacked from all directions, both by land and sea. And so he invited his friend Hengist to come and live in Britain, in his kingdom of Northumbria, where Vortigern would give grants of land to Hengist’s followers in return for their services in withstanding threats from outsiders of all kinds.”

Enos shrugged his shoulders, pursing his lips as though to indicate that he would make no judgments. “It worked,” he continued. “It worked for many years and everyone appeared to be well pleased, until the Danes began inviting relatives and family to come and restore their ranks, which had been badly eroded after years of warfare. All at once, it appeared, there was no longer a sufficiency of land, and rivalries began to emerge among neighbors who had been friends for years, but were now reduced to being Danes and Northumbrians—Oudanders and natives, competing for what land there was. And then Hengist died and his son Horsa came into power, and Horsa was a very different creature from his father. He still is, and grows worse every passing day. He led a rebellion to overthrow Vortigern several months ago, and word has recently arrived that Vortigern was killed in the fighting and that his kingdom is now completely in the power of Hengist’s Danes.” He paused again, then smiled at me.

“Of course, there is no reason for you to know or understand any of this at all. I merely speak of it because I have an ill sensation somewhere at the back of my mind that tells me we here in the south of Britain will have to reckon with Horsa the Dane, one of these days. I have no solid reason for suspecting so, but the feeling, a premonition if you will, refuses to quit my mind. Anyway, where were we?”

“We were speaking of Bishop Germanus’s hopes for the coronation of the Riothamus, sir.”

“Ah, yes, of course we were, and then I digressed, as usual. Forgive me. Now, please-tell me again, what were Germanus’s wishes on this matter?”

I cleared my throat, then spoke out boldly. “Well, sir, he hopes, as I have said, that you will agree to stand in his place at the crowning, thereby lending your authority—the Church’s authority—to the naming of the Riothamus. But lord Germanus also voiced the hope that, in addition, you would use your episcopal authority and your powers of persuasion to convince your fellow bishops throughout Britain to unite with you in supporting Merlyn’s initiative, since the Church itself stands to benefit directly and substantially from having the backing and support of the military strength of Camulod as Defenders of the Faith and of the Faithful in Britain.”

Enos sat silent while I said all this, nodding his head only occasionally as I approached the end of what I had to say, and when I was finished he sat frowning into the distance for a spell before nodding his head once more, this time emphatically, and rising to his feet.

“Good,” he said, almost to himself. “Excellent. So be it.” He looked directly at me then, and dipped his head in a determined nod again, his lips compressed into a thin line. “I agree,” he said. “I will do everything my brother Germanus asks of me. The bishops of Britain will stand united behind the young man from Camulod. We will crown him King and name him Riothamus. But it will be the responsibility of Merlyn, and young Pendragon himself, to ensure that he becomes High King in more than name alone. I doubt, however, that that will be much of a concern. I have counted Merlyn Britannicus among my friends for many years now and I have met Arthur Pendragon on several occasions throughout that time. He is a very fine young man—a boy, really—grave when gravity is called for, and naturally and spontaneously pious without being sanctimonious. I found him to be abstemious, which surprised me in one so young, and self-restrained, and yet I know that among his friends he is fun-loving and normal in every normal, boyish way. His friends think highly of him, and he appears to have many friends, perhaps more than one might normally expect.” He hesitated for a moment, his brows furrowing briefly, then went on. “On the matter of the young man’s military prowess, mind you, I am not qualified to judge, but I stand completely prepared to be guided by Merlyn’s expertise in that area.”

He smiled at me at that point, apparently quite confident that I would agree with him, and again I said nothing, merely nodding my head.

“On the matter of finding Merlyn, I foresee no difficulty other than the passing of time. We have none of that to waste. Merlyn must be told about all of this immediately. I will send out priests in search of him within the next few days. They will carry the word to the West, into Cambria and Cornwall and wherever Merlyn is, he will be quickly found. What will you do, now that you have delivered your messages to me?”

“I shall return to Camulod, as quickly as I may, to await Arthur Pendragon’s return from his sweep of the north. I have not yet met him.”

“Aye, I can see why you would be anxious to do that,” he acknowledged. “But would you consider instead remaining here in Verulamium?”

I gaped at him, astonished that he would even ask such a thing, but he was in no way put out by my obvious reluctance, for he kept right on speaking as though I had told him that I would be happy to remain close to Saint Alban’s Shrine forever. “I have the feeling that as time goes by and the arrangements for the coronation progress, it will be a benefit to everyone to have you right here at hand.”

“How so, Bishop?”

“Because the process of finding Merlyn might be a slow one. My messengers have to cross the breadth of Britain before they can start spreading the word of their quest with any hope of success. From then on, every priest and bishop that they meet will join the search and spread the word, and sooner or later one of them will find Merlyn. From that moment, a copy of a letter from me will be brought to Merlyn, and his response will be quickly brought back here to me.”

“Your pardon, but did you say, a letter? Will you write but one?”

“I will.” But then he smiled at me. “And I will write it tonight and have three score copies of it prepared tomorrow, so that each of the twenty priests I intend to dispatch will carry three copies with him to distribute when he arrives in Cambria or Cornwall. Thus there should be at least one copy of the letter within easy reach, no matter where Merlyn may prove to be.