Jack Whyte - The Lance Thrower

Chulderic and I had talked as we rode about the dispatches I bore for the King from Germanus. I had been carrying them belted about my waist, beneath my armor, and I had already passed them over to the old man, as Ban’s senior and most trusted counselor. I knew I could trust him to read and absorb the tidings I bore and, provided the King were fit to hear them, to pass their content on cogently and succinctly enough for the King to understand them and make any decisions that might be necessary. Now Chulderic rode beside me, knee to knee, and his face was wrinkled with concern. I could see his white-knuckled grip on the reins and knew it was only by a great effort of will that he was suppressing his urge to go galloping forward at top speed to be by his King’s side. Of course it was much too late for that now and nothing would be served by his making an undignified spectacle of himself in the last few moments of our approach. And so we rode sedately forward and dismounted decorously in front of the King’s tent.

As we did so the flaps to the tent were pushed apart and a tall figure emerged, stooping to keep his head clear of the peak of the entranceway. It was my cousin Samson, Ban’s second son and my favorite kinsman among his offspring. I was delighted to see him there, because Chulderic had made no mention of his presence with the King’s party, but I realized immediately that his attendance upon the King, along with that of his brothers, would be commonplace enough to merit no particular attention. At twenty-three, as I reckoned his age, Samson’s natural place as a warrior was by his father’s side. Samson ignored me completely in passing, going straight to take Chulderic’s reins from the groom who had been holding them. Chulderic gave him no chance to speak.

“How is he?”

Samson shrugged and dipped his head, twisting his mouth in a wry acknowledgment. “Not good. The surgeons say the arrowhead is lodged against his spine, deep beneath his shoulder blade. They can’t probe for it, and they can’t cut in to it because both the shoulder blade and the collarbone above it are directly in the path of the knife.”

“And so they do nothing?”

“Sakander tells me there is nothing they can do without killing him, and I believe him. If they break the collarbone in front to gain access to the arrowhead, they might have to sever it completely, and Sakander says the chances of its knitting again are slight, given my father’s age … and besides that, he says, even if they could reach the arrowhead, there is still no guarantee that he would be able to remove it—it’s a war arrow, remember, heavily, barbed—without killing my father.”

Chulderic spat an obscenity and then headed toward the tent’s entrance, but he stopped and looked again at Samson. “Is he awake?”

“No. He was, until a short time ago, but Sakander fed him a potion and he fell into a deep sleep just before you arrived. Now he should sleep for several hours.” Samson looked at me then, and from me to Ursus, a small frown ticking between his brows. “Who are these people?”

Chulderic saw where Samson’s eyes were directed and spoke first to that. “That one is Ursus, a mercenary and a bowman. We thought for a time he might have been the one who shot your father.”

Samson shook his head again, a short, sharp negative. “No, we found that one. He died before we could question him, but the arrows in his quiver were identical to the one that shot my father, so we know it was him.” He glanced next at me, his eyes sweeping me from crown to toe. “And this one?”

“That’s your brother. Clothar.”

Samson recoiled slightly, in shock and surprise, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline, but then his face broke into a grin of recognition. “By the Christus! Clothar? It is you! Welcome, Cousin.” He stepped forward immediately and threw his arms about me, giving me no time to register surprise at his awareness of our true relationship, and as I embraced him I recognized the well-remembered scent that always hung about his person, a clean, vigorous smell of light, fresh sweat mixed with something else, a fragrance reminiscent somehow, utterly illogically, of wild strawberries. He pushed me away again, holding me at arm’s length while his laughing eyes gazed into mine, gauging my height and width. “By all the old gods, Chulderic,.he has grown up, our little tad, has he not?”

Chulderic grunted but made no other reply and Samson’s expression sobered. “I could wish you had come at a better time, Brother, for our father—and he is that to both of us, although differently—is sorely hurt and like to die.” I saw Chulderic stiffen from the corner of my eye and Samson released me and stepped away, speaking now to the old man, his words blunt and unyielding. “What, Chulderic? What would you have me say? That the King is but slightly scratched and will be sound tomorrow? Our Leader the King has been struck down by a war arrow—an iron-headed arrow with fluted, extended barbs designed to do maximum damage to anything it strikes. I do not like the sound of that, or the reality of it, any more than you do, but it would be folly to deny it or make light of it. He is my father, a man, not a god. We must accept that and plan accordingly.”

Chulderic nodded. “Aye, we must, of course. Has word been sent to your mother?”

“Aye, it has, and to Gunthar and the others.”

Hearing Samson say those words, I had a sudden image of Gunthar’s face, wearing its habitual sneering look of condescension, and I wondered whether time had improved his disposition.

Samson had already moved away to hold back the tent flaps and permit Chulderic and me to enter, but I stopped him with an upraised arm, and he lowered the flaps again and stood looking at me, one eyebrow quirked slightly in expectation. I glanced from Chulderic to Ursus and then, keeping my voice low, I asked the question that was filling my mind.

“Forgive me for asking now, Samson, but it is important. How long have you known that we are cousins?”

The outer edge of his lip twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile, but may also have been a slight tic of annoyance. He nodded his head, a single gesture of acknowledgment. “We found out years ago,” he said. “Shortly after you went off to school with the bishop. We were curious about why you should go there and not us, and I suppose we were too curious, because father and mother sat us down one night and told us about who you really are, then swore us all to secrecy. So we know who you are, but we have kept the knowledge secret among ourselves.” He hesitated, and then the smile broke out on his lips. “You’re wondering about Gunthar, are you not? Thinking he would make profit from that knowledge were it his to hold?” I nodded, wordless, and Samson shook his head. “He knows nothing. He was nowhere close to Benwick when the matter arose, and you may be sure that none of us went trotting to inform him. No, your secret is safe, Cousin.”

I inclined my head to him, as courteously as I could. “Thank you for that,” I said quietly. “Now I should like to see the King, if I may.”

Samson made no response to that other than to raise the entrance flaps again to permit us to enter the King’s tent. He himself remained outside and I noticed that Ursus made no move to join us, probably aware that he would be denied entry. I caught Ursus’s eye and nodded slightly to him before I stooped to follow Chulderic into King Ban’s tent.

It was dark in there, the strengthening daylight failing yet to penetrate the thick leather panels of the tent, and what light there was came from the flickering flames of a quartet of lamps suspended from poles around the King’s bed. The bed itself was heaped surprisingly high with coverings, but then I realized that they were draped over a construction of some kind that covered the King’s upper body and had been built to retain warmth while protecting his injuries from the weight of the coverings. A tall, austere-looking man whom I assumed to be the surgeon Sakander sat erect at the head of the bed, close by the King’s side, radiating an aura of intent watchfulness. His eyes were already fastened on Chulderic by the time I entered behind the old warrior and he paid me no attention at all. There were other people in the spacious tent, three that I counted among the shadows as my eyes began adjusting to the darkness, but as we approached the King’s bed Sakander waved one hand and they all left immediately.