Jack Whyte - The Lance Thrower

“So why did people in Auxerre stop calling it Autessiodurum? I like that name.”

Another smile and a shake of his head. “Why do people do anything? I can’t tell you anything about that, lad … other than that they were Gauls and they wanted nothing to do with any Roman place called Autessiodurum. They’d had their own name for the place, long before the Romans came.

“Anyway, it’s Germanus’s home country. His family have been there for hundreds of years and own most of the land for many miles around. Or they used to own it. It has new owners nowadays, apparently. I’ve heard tell, again from people who know, that when he swore allegiance to the Church, as a bishop, Germanus turned over all of his possessions to his superiors, keeping nothing for himself, since he has no heirs.”

“He gave away everything?”

“Aye, to the Church.”

“Why?”

“You will have to ask him that for yourself. He will be here within the month. The letter I was reading when you came to me today was from him. We have not seen each other since our legion days, and he will be passing close to here on one of his missions, so he will stay with us for a few days.”

“Will you be spending lots of time with him while he is here?”

“All of it. Why would you ask that?”

“Will you tell me more about my father before he comes?”

He looked slightly surprised. “Aye, I will.”

“When?”

He turned his eyes away from mine to look at his wife, and I looked at her too, wondering what was passing between them. The Lady Vivienne simply smiled at him, her lips curving faintly upward, but her face was very pale. He nodded, tensely, I thought, and then looked back to me.

“Tonight, if you would like that. It’s almost dinnertime now, and I have guests to look after. You eat, then go to bed at your appointed time, and I will wake you when I am done with my tasks. You and I can talk then and no one will interrupt us.”

As though she had received some signal that I missed, my mother—and that word seemed suddenly strange to me—rose and crossed to where I sat, then stooped to kiss my cheek and told me gently to go and take my place with my brothers in the dining hall. As I left the room, I could feel both of them watching me.

I was so excited that evening that I did not believe I could possibly sleep when bedtime came. I ate without awareness of eating, my eyes fastened on King Ban and his guests at the head table as I willed the King to look toward me and nod some kind of acknowledgment of his promise. But he paid me no attention, his entire being focused upon the entertainment of his guests at the high table, and shortly after they had finished their meal and left the hall, Ludda came looking for me to gather me up and supervise my bedding down for the night. Ten years old and more than halfway to manhood I might be, but my nurse’s word still ruled my behavior.

On this occasion, however, I made no demur about going to bed. I was looking forward to lying awake in the warm darkness, thinking about my real father and mother and imagining the tales King Ban would have to tell me. And of course, once in bed and warm, I fell straight to sleep.

I awoke to the sound of my name, to find the King standing above me, holding a flickering lamp.

“Up, boy. Or would you rather stay there and go back to sleep?”

Almost before he had finished speaking, I was rolling out of bed, wide-awake, my heart already hammering. In anticipation of being summoned, I had gone to bed still wearing my tunic and leggings, and as I groped for my felt shoes the King threw me a heavy, fur-lined robe that had been folded over his arm.

“Here, put this on. It’s cold tonight.”

I followed him quickly, clutching the warm, heavy robe around me as he led me down the great curved staircase and back toward his day quarters. I had no idea what time of night it was, but I knew it must be very late because it was so cold, and because the hallways were utterly deserted and several of the bracketed torches lining the walls had burned themselves out. King Ban did not look back at me but strode directly to his private quarters, where he threw open one half of the heavy doors and swept through. I closed the door quietly behind me, looking around me in surprise. The room was awash with the leaping light of flames from a huge number of fine candles and a roaring log fire in the brazier in the hearth. The windows were firmly shuttered and secured against the night, and it was warm in there for the first time ever, to my knowledge.

“Sit, over there.”

I sat in the comfortably padded chair the King had indicated, on the left side of the hearth, and he crossed to its twin on the other side, but he did not sit down immediately. He stood with one hand on the back of the chair and stared back toward the door. I looked to see what he was staring at, but there was nothing.

“Where is the man?” As he spoke the words, the door swung open again, and Guntram, Ban’s veteran personal servitor, entered carefully, holding the door ajar with his buttocks as he stooped to gather up two steaming jugs.

“Worthy lad,” the King addressed him, “I was beginning to think you might have died in the kitchens.”

Guntram, who was many decades beyond being a lad of any description, paid no attention to his lord and master. Carrying one large jug in each hand, he crossed the room quickly and placed them gently beside an array of mugs that sat on a long, narrow table flanking the King’s big worktable. He stood quietly for a few moments, gazing down at the table as though taking stock of everything it held, then turned to the King.

“Will you need anything else, Lord? Shall I pour for you?”

Ban finally smiled. “No, and I have kept you from your sleep for far too long. Get you to bed now, and sleep well. I may just have another task for you tomorrow.”

Again the old man ignored the raillery. “Aye, sir.” His eyes moved from the King to me and he nodded slightly. “Late night, for a young lad. Tomorrow, then.”

I watched King Ban watch Guntram leave the room, and as soon as the door closed with a thud, he swung away toward the table with its steaming jugs. He filled a mug for himself, then poured mine from the first, larger jug, and topped it up from the second before bringing it over to me.

“Spiced wine and honeyed water. For me, spiced wine alone. I dislike the taste of water, honeyed or otherwise.”

I could scarcely believe the privileges I was enjoying—first a uniquely private audience with the King, deep in the night, in quarters I could never have imagined being so intimately comfortable, and now this. I held the mug up to my nostrils, inhaling the fragrant steam that rose from it.

“I’ve never had this before,” I said.

“I know,” the King said, bending to thrust the long iron poker deep into the heart of the fire. He left it lodged there and sat back again. “But tonight is for talk of manhood and the preparations for it. Spiced wine is part of that. Try it. You might find the taste even better than the smell of it.”

I sipped, cautiously on two counts, alert to the high heat of the brew and to the unimaginable taste. Both were acceptable, the flavor of the sweet, diluted spicy wine indescribably delicious. The King watched me suck in my cheeks and smile my pleasure before he raised his own cup to his lips, nodding gently.

“Sets the mouth a-jangling, doesn’t it?” He sipped a mouthful and savored it, rolling it around his tongue before swallowing, and seeing his pleasure I raised my own mug again.

“Be careful. Drink it very slowly, a little at a time. We have much to talk about tonight and you are not used to wine. I warn you, even watered down, it will go straight to your head. Especially when it is hot.”