Jack Whyte - Uther

The man was a stranger. Keeping his face utterly expressionless, Lagan moved his eyes slowly to the other guard's face. This one he knew. No one spoke for a space of heartbeats, and then the second man brought up his hand and placed the back of his fingers against his companion's blade, growling something in their own tongue. The first man grunted and remained motionless for a count of four, then straightened slowly and put up his sword, sneering very slightly, his eyes warning Lagan wordlessly that this time he had been lucky, and that the guard would readily have spilled his blood. Lagan made no response. He simply stepped past the fellow as though nothing had happened and reached down for the iron handle to push the door open.

Lot was leaning through an open window, peering out into the yard beyond, and he turned when he heard Lagan enter.

"Ah, there you are," he roared.

Gulrhys Lot came bounding across the room and tried to catch Lagan in a headlock that quickly turned into a mighty hug. Lagan clasped his own arms about the King's shoulders, marvelling, as he did every time, that he had finally grown accustomed to this highly unusual form of greeting. The King was the only man Lagan knew who indulged in this very intimate, personal gesture, a mannerism he had picked up somewhere in Gaul in his boyhood, and the majority of his men, with the exception of his Gaulish mercenaries, were extremely uncomfortable in receiving, let alone returning, the affectionate embrace. To the dour, Celtic mind, such overt demonstrations of friendship smacked of emotional excess, and Lagan had seen many a fearless chieftain and warrior flush with the embarrassment of it.

Now Lot thrust him away and held him at arm's length, gripping his upper arms tightly and peering into Lagan's eyes. His own eyes narrowed. "You're angry about something. What is it?"

Lagan tossed his head, jerking his thumb back towards the doorway behind him. "I'm not angry, Gully, not really, simply annoyed. One of your tame killers out there drew a sword on me when I sought to come in here."

Lot's face darkened immediately. "What? Against you? He threatened you? I'll have the whoreson's head!" He was already moving towards the door, but Lagan grasped him by the sleeve and turned him around.

"For what. Gully? He's new, and he didn't know me. The man on duty with him pulled him off. Besides, the fellow was only doing what he's supposed to do."

"And what's that? Threaten my friends?"

"No, protect your kingly arse against imaginary dangers. I'm dying of thirst. Have you anything to drink here?"

Lot barked a harsh, abrupt laugh and moved immediately towards a table that held several clay pitchers, each covered with a cloth and an array of cups. This room was his personal domain, and he permitted no servants to intrude upon his privacy. The Keeper of the Household had prescribed hours during which his staff could clean and maintain the room, but when the King was present, their absence was ordained.

The walls were of plain stone, but they were hung with weavings of undyed, thick, heavy wool, which Lot's father had believed helped to keep out the winter's chill. The eastern wall was pierced by a Roman-style window, with two arches separated by a central pillar, that opened upon the interior courtyard where the boys trained. Two sets of shutters, exterior and interior, enabled the King to shut out the cold and the outside world whenever he wished. Flanking the window and vented to the courtyard, an open fireplace held a brazier basket made of heavy iron strips, and the floor, save for the area closest to the brazier, was strewn with clean, dried rushes that were changed regularly and often.

The room was sparsely furnished, yet comfortably appointed to Lot's own needs. It contained one deep, stuffed and padded armchair made of softly tanned leather and another, less luxurious but still comfortable chair with a padded, upright back in the form of a classic Roman Stella for a guest. These two chairs faced the fireplace, one on either side. Three other plain, armless wooden chairs were spaced against the walls around the room, and there were two tables, the small one Lot was using now, which always held jugs of mead and wine, and another, longer work table, much larger than its companion, which was set against the rear wall of the room, accompanied by a plain, three-legged stool. That table was where the King spent most of his working day, for Gulrhys Lot took pride in telling everyone that he worked at being King. That was true, Lagan knew, and no exaggeration. But he also knew that Lot enjoyed the sense of power that accrued to him because of his literacy in a time and place where very few could read or write.

Lot read well and wrote a clear, flowing script that always surprised Lagan in its neat and methodical firmness, for it was cleaner and more legible than Lagan's own. The two had learned together as children, their teacher an elderly, crippled Roman scribe who had undertaken to educate both Duke Emrys and his son in return for a roof over his head and the protection that entailed. Lot, stubborn and wilful even then, had refused to learn unless his friend could learn with him, and so Lagan Longhead had been set apart from all his fellows by being taught to read and write.

Glancing at the work table now with all its paraphernalia —quill pens and styluses, ink pots, parchments and papyrus— Lagan noted a scattering of scrolls, several of them rolled but two unfurled and held open by heavy weights. Gulrhys Lot had quickly seen all the advantages of literacy, and nowadays he insisted that his primary advisers knew how to read and write also. Lagan often smiled at that thought, for he believed that there were several among those primary advisers who were as literate as tree stumps, but they were all clever enough to keep more learned men about them, and thus they were able to survive, serving the King and preserving their own privilege.

As Lot was bringing Gaulish wine for both of them, a howl of boyish outrage drifted in through the window, and Lagan crossed to look out to where a cluster of six boys was grouped around a seventh, this one holding his arms tightly clasped around his head and keening at the top of his voice. One of the smaller boys hung back, clutching a heavy dowel of ash wood and looking apprehensive. Off to one side, an elderly, dour-looking warrior stood silently watching, scowling in disapproval. Lagan grunted, smothering a laugh.

"Looks like young Twoey got in a good one on Owen. Is this what you were watching when I came in?" He took the drink the King was holding out to him.

Lot nodded. "Aye. They improve daily, learning the disciplines of fighting intelligently, in spite of their dislike of each other."

"Or perhaps because of it. They are a fractious crew, aren't they?"

Lot did not respond other than to turn away, looking out into the small exercise yard. Lagan winced to himself, thinking that he might have offended the King. Gully was unpredictable when his sons were the subject of discussion. He could criticize them; others could not. This time, however, Lot took no offence.

"Six of them," he grunted. "You would think at least two of them could get along."

"Perhaps it's their mothers' fault," Lagan answered quietly, half turning to where the King stood gazing out and down.

"Perhaps? That's a foolish observation. There's more jealousy among those six bitches than among all my chieftains combined. I ought to banish all of them."

Lagan allowed himself a smile. This, too, was a common theme between them. "You chose them, Sir King," he drawled.

"Chose them be damned. They chose themselves, through pregnancy. They are a herd of cows!"

"The regal concubines . . ."

Lot's head jerked around. "There is sometimes too much of the Roman in you, my friend. You are impertinent, with too much Latin."