Jack Whyte - The Lance Thrower

He saw my reluctance, however, and reacted strongly to it, stiffening his voice and speaking with more authority. “I wish I could stand, boy, to be beside you with my hand upon your shoulder as you do this, but it may not be. Go you and bring me the guard who stands outside the tent. Quickly now.”

I did as he asked and then watched, uncomprehending, as he instructed the man to find the bishop who was chaplain to the Christian troopers and to bring him back with him. He then continued talking to me about trivial things, in that whisper-quiet voice, until the bishop entered some time later. The bishop bowed his head and Ban nodded once to him, in recognition, then asked the bishop to hand me the pectoral Cross that hung about his neck, and then to go back and wait outside. Clearly mystified, the bishop handed the ornate Cross to me and then bowed to the king before backing out of the tent, having spoken no single word. When we were alone again, ignoring the surgeon at the rear of the tent as he seemed to ignore us, Ban smiled at me, the ghost of the carefree grin I had loved for so many years.

“Up, boy, stand up and hold that thing out in front of you. Stretch out your arm. Is it as heavy as it looks?”

I nodded. It was even heavier than it looked, made of solid gold, but I said nothing.

“Aye, well it should be. It represents a heavy burden … your duty to God. Mine is almost over … my duty to the same God. You’ve never known me as a prayerful man, have you?” When I shook my head his faint smile widened. “That’s because I never have been one. But duty, Clothar … the acceptance of it … and … and the … discharging of it … are prayers by themselves, and I have never been one to … to shrink away from duty.” He paused, and I could see he was close to exhaustion, his voice near to being inaudible, and I held my breath, remaining motionless as I watched him will himself, eyes closed and breathing shallow, regular breaths, to regain sufficient strength to complete what he wished to say. Finally, after what seemed to me to be an age, although the watchful surgeon at my back showed no sign of alarm or concern, he mastered himself and began to speak again, his voice stronger and deeper.

“I told you God has great things in store for you and will lay heavy expectations upon you. I believe that completely, and so does my friend Germanus. Once I am gone, nothing in your life will be unaltered, and so I need to be sure that you will return to Auxerre and to Germanus. That’s why I have you standing there in front of me, clutching that heavy Cross. Be aware of it, and swear me your oath again, this time with some conviction.” This time, strange as it might seem to those people who were not there to witness what Ban said, I believed him absolutely, so that I swore the oath with passion and conviction, promising solemnly that I would return to Germanus in Auxerre within the year and that I would permit nothing to hinder me or dissuade me.

This time, when I had finished, the King rewarded me with a contented smile and waved me away with those frail, wavering fingers, asking me to return the bishop’s Cross. I did so, and this time saw Samson waiting patiently outside the tent, gazing off into the distance, his long arms wrapped about his chest. I mentioned this to the King, and he asked me to summon his son. When Samson came in, the King beckoned to him to bend close, and whispered something into his ear. Samson went away frowning and returned with a powerful, magnificently made bow and a large, heavy quiver filled with arrows, which he stood holding at the foot of the bed. Ban nodded. “Give them to Clothar.”

Deeply astonished, I took them from Samson’s outstretched hands, then turned to the King. “Lord,” I asked him, “what am I to do with these?”

He smiled, and when he spoke his voice reminded me of the rustle of dead leaves stirred by the wind. “Do with them what you will, my son. They are yours. They have been the death of me, but they are wondrous fine and should go to someone who will use them well.”

I went rigid, realizing only then that these were the weapons that had struck him down—I saw the bright yellow fletching of the arrows and was stunned that I had not recognized them instantly. The large quiver was heavily packed, filled with at least two score of the bright, yellow-feathered war arrows.

“No,” the King said sharply, waving his sound hand slightly but sufficiently to stop me and dispel what I was thinking. “No, don’t throw them down. They are superb weapons. Learn how to use them, Clothar, and remember when you do that they are merely tools for your direction and use. They had no will to harm me when they brought me down. That came from the man who used them. His was the urge to kill. Treat these with the respect they deserve, as powerful, well-crafted weapons, and they will serve you well, my son.

“Now kiss me and go with God, and I will pass your love and kindness to your father and mother when next we meet. But bear in mind your promise at all times from this day on: within the year, you must return to Auxerre and to Germanus.”

His voice was very weak by then, and Samson’s face was stretched tight with concern. I looked from one to the other of them, and then to Sakander, who sat gazing at me, his face still empty of expression. The surgeon nodded to me, as though granting me permission, and I stooped and kissed King Ban of Benwick for the last time.

Early on the morning of the day of the King’s funeral, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I emerged from my tent to find Samson deep in thought directly ahead of me, staring off into the misty distance and completely unaware of what was going on about him. It was a chilly morning, overcast and damp, and anyone could see it would turn into a nasty, rainy day once the lowering clouds had finished massing overhead and decided to purge themselves of their burden of moisture. I greeted him and asked him what was wrong, and he half turned toward me, surprised to find me there so close to him. I asked him again why he looked so glum, and this time he said, “Beddoc,” then turned his head away again.

Beddoc, I knew, was one of his lieutenants, a clan chief who led nigh on a hundred warriors raised from his own holdings not far from Genava. I had met him on several occasions and found him difficult to warm to. He was a naturally dour man—a single glance at his dark, humorless face was all it took to see that—but he was enormous, too, and the sheer sullen bulk of him, draped in drab armor and faded furs, emphasized the air of unfriendliness and inaccessibility that surrounded him.

“What about him?” I asked, when it became plain Samson was going to say no more.

“He’s gone. Last night sometime, during the third watch. Left without anyone knowing why or where he was headed.”

“He must have told some of his men where he was going.”

“No, his men went with him.”

“All of them? That’s impossible. How could a hundred men break camp and sneak away without being seen? The guards must have seen them.”

“They did, but all the guards on that watch last night were his men. He took them with him, too. Left the camp. unguarded for the duration of the watch. Sellus, captain of the fourth watch, discovered they were gone when he rolled out to rouse his men.”

I did not know how to respond to this because I had never heard of such a thing. A hundred men vanished in the night from a campsite with no one else noticing simply defied credence. I was so amazed by what he had told me that I completely missed the real significance of the event. “Surely someone must have seen something,” I protested.

“Aye, we think someone did. A man called Castor, from among my own troops, another called Gilles, one of Chulderic’s men, and some young fellow who worked with the commissary people. All three were found dead by their fires, wrapped in their blankets with their throats cut. We think they must have been awakened by the stir, and killed as soon as they were noticed.”