Jack Whyte - The Lance Thrower

“I know it was an important battle—how could I not know? It is the talk of the land. Everyone has been talking of little else since it took place. Believe me, Master Merlyn, we have heard about it from many people, but none of those from whom we heard of it was actually present at the event—not one of them. None of them saw the fight, none of them knew the truth of what occurred, and the information they passed on to us when the tidings were fresh and new was already polluted by ignorance and the boastful claims of empty-headed loudmouths.” I drew a deep breath, forcing down the anger that was always so close to welling up in me nowadays and compelling myself to remain calm, at least in my speaking.

“We heard reports of everything that went on ahead of us as we crossed from Cambria to here, Master Merlyn, and we could trust none of it to be free of distortion or bias. On the purely personal level, all I really know to be true is that great events have been unfolding far from my ken and that, despite a deep belief that Bishop Germanus sent me here precisely to be involved in these events and to stand with Arthur the King and his people, I have somehow managed to miss all of them—to the point of utter and unhappy ignorance.”

As I spoke, intensely aware of my own frustration yet unable to control a burgeoning sense of unwonted anger, Merlyn had turned his head toward the fire basket, and when I had finished, he sat silent for a while longer, his lips pouted in thought.

“It is easy to see why you are angry,” he said at length. “On the matter of the King’s coronation, there is little I can do to ease your disappointment. I know there are stories circulating concerning what went on at the high altar, and I know, too, that they seem incredible and undeserving of belief. But I can offer you a few hard facts that are indisputable, despite their appearance of being fantastical. Mere moments after the King’s corona had been set upon his brow at the high altar by Bishop Enos, and after swearing a mighty regal oath to use his armed might to defend God’s Church against all pagan and godless aggression, Arthur Pendragon drew a magnificent long-bladed sword from the altar itself—from the altar stone—in full view of thousands of people. I have seen the sword, and held it in my hands, and there has never been a weapon of such beauty and splendor ever seen before, in this land or any other. That is the truth, Master Clothar. These events occurred. I was there and saw them take place with my own eyes. And as the new King held this wondrous sword aloft for all to see, a beam of purest sunlight shone through a gap in the clouds above and outlined him in golden glory in an unmistakable demonstration of God’s own approval of his crowning and his sacred oath.

“Those events you missed, and their like will never occur again, and I regret deeply that, after all the troubles you have gone through, you were unable to witness them. I can assure you, however, that you may trust my version of what occurred that day, and you may also be assured that Arthur will be happy to accept your sword, your service, and your loyalty when the two of you eventually stand face-to-face. Lose no sleep over that one, Master Clothar. Arthur Pendragon has a mighty task ahead of him and he will require, and be grateful for, all the assistance, loyalty, and support he can find.

“As to the other matter, the King’s first battle, I can provide you with accurate information on what happened there. I have in my possession not only the reports of the battle but the plan of battle from the King himself, drawn by his own hand, and I will gladly share those with you at another time—perhaps even tomorrow, if Arthur does not return in the interim.”

This was the first indication I had received since my arrival that the King was not even in Camulod, and I asked Merlyn where he had gone.

“He is on circuit patrol. Traveling around the perimeter of the colony, checking each guard outpost and patrol garrison, then striking outward to visit our outlying garrisons in surrounding towns and communities.”

“The King does that in person?”

“Aye, and happily, of his own choosing. It enables him to meet and speak with his men as men, and he enjoys that.”

“Commander to trooper, you mean, rather than king to subject.”

“No, man to man, rather than superior to minion. It is important to him.”

“Important to his men, too, I’ll wager.” I was remembering Chulderic’s story of how King Ban and my father had met Germanus. “How long might he be gone?”

Merlyn shrugged. “Who can say? It all depends upon who and what he encounters on his patrol, but we generally allocate ten days for each sweep—that’s what we call our routine patrols—then add sufficient discretionary time for them to extend that by two days. After that, if we have not received word from them, we send out rescue squadrons.”

“Have you ever had a patrol that failed to return?”

“Aye, several, but very few overall, in a sixty-year period.”

“So you are not concerned about the King’s absence?”

“Concerned?” Merlyn laughed. “No, not at all. He is not absent , Master Clothar, he is on a sweep, of his own lands, and he has only been gone for ten days. We expect him to return at any moment—he could be entering the gateway as we speak—but even if he fails to appear today, he yet has two days before we will begin to grow concerned. And even then, we would need evidence of some kind to arouse our suspicions to the point of sending out a rescue mission. This is not some junior subaltern or local kinglet, Master Clothar. Arthur Pendragon is Riothamus of Britain and a battle commander of supreme abilities. He will not be bullied, nor will he be easily dissuaded from completing whatever tasks he sets himself before returning home to Camulod.”

I nodded. “Yes, I understand what you are saying. I look forward to meeting him.”

“Good. You will, and very soon, I promise you. And now, if there is nothing else—”

“There is one more thing, if you will permit me.”

He hunched his shoulders expressively, his face indicating surprise but with a willingness to listen, and I felt myself flushing scarlet as the words that had been in my head began to drain rapidly downward, avoiding my lips. Merlyn sat waiting. “Well,” I continued, floundering, “I know not if I can find the proper words … but I think it is important that I try to say what I wish to say, if only to clear the air and allow myself to think logically.” I took a breath and thrust straight ahead. “May I ask you, Master Merlyn, whether Bishop Germanus mentioned me by name in the letter I brought to you?”

Merlyn slowly raised his hand and scratched delicately and deliberately at his chin with the nail of his little finger. “Yes, he did. But why would you ask me that? The content of that letter is my concern alone.”

“It is, sir, I know. But I must ask you to be patient with me and extend me your forbearance, if you will, no matter how ill mannered or clumsy I may appear to be in this … . I have been asking myself for some time now why Bishop Germanus chose to involve me in these affairs when he could very easily have sent one of his own priests to deliver letters for him. He had no shortage of young priests at his disposal and they cross the seas on God’s business all the time, so why would he pick me and send me off to a foreign land with no idea of what I must do once I have carried out my task for him? He had a purpose in mind for me, of that I am sure, but he told me nothing of what it might be. And now you tell me he is dead and that confounds me, for I know not what to do now, or where I should go. My mentor is dead. My task, as far as I know, is completed. And I have no clear indication, mental or otherwise, of what I should do next. I feel … abandoned, I suppose … cut off from all certainty.