Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 2 - Metamorphosis

Llewellyn waved his hand from me to them. "Gwynn Blood-Eye and Daffyd, Merlyn of Camulod. Daffyd's our cook, and better than any you have brought with you, I'd wager. Gwynn Blood-Eye's here because he's the only whoreson in this place who's uglier than me! Sit you."

I nodded to the two men and sat down on a rock, gazing at the whole, spitted carcasses of two fowls that still hung above the fire, the grease from them dripping onto the coals beneath and flaring in small, furious bursts of fire. A large pile of bones lay on a square wooden platter close by Daffyd's feet and a half eaten carcass clung to another spit. As I sat down, the man called Gwynn Blood-Eye, who indeed had one eye that was the deep red of blood, with no discernible iris or pupil, reached down to his side and passed me a wooden board like the one that lay by Daffyd. I thanked him and balanced the thing on my knee as Llewellyn reached across the fire, deftly lifted off another spit and then slid the carcass of the bird free of its spike and onto my platter.

"Eat," he said. "It's duck, basted with pig fat. You'll like it. There's some salt there, in the clay pot." He returned to his own fowl as I began to rip mine apart, heedless of the searing heat of it. I raised a dripping thigh and crunched my teeth into it, burning my lips with hot fat, yet utterly uncaring as the delicious flavour of the hot meat filled my mouth. For a while, there was no more talking around our fire, until I had stripped the bird's bones clean. As I finished it, throwing the last of the remnants into the fire, Llewellyn handed me a cloth to clean my hands.

"You were ready for that"

"Aye, it's the first real food I've eaten in the past two days. I didn't know how hungry I was until I came outside to look around and met you, with that leg in your fist."

"Here." He reached down and handed me a clay pot filled with ale, and I drank deeply. The taste of it was quite unlike anything I had ever tasted before. When I had slaked my thirst, I lowered the pot and looked at him.

'That, I believe, is the finest ale I've ever drunk. Where in the name of God did you get it?"

"You're the stranger here, Merlyn of Camulod. We live here. And that ale was made not five of your Roman miles from where we sit now." As Llewellyn spoke, Gwynn Blood-Eye and Daffyd both rose to their feet, nodded to me and left the fire, heading in different directions, Daffyd carrying the last remaining spitted bird.

I looked inquiringly at my host. "Where have they gone?"

"Who knows? They have things to do and they know we have matters to discuss. You were asking me about the boy, Arthur, before your hunger got the best of you. Had you finished with that?"

"No." I blinked at him, surprised at how he had redirected me to our former conversation. "You had just finished detailing his parentage, which I had thought to be a secret. Where did your information come from?"

"About Uther and his lady love? It's common knowledge."

"Is it, by the Christ? I was unaware of that."

"Well, it's a common rumour, let's say. Few, if any, know the truth of it. When our men returned from Cornwall, after Uther's death, they brought word of his exploits and of his love for the woman. She had a baby son, that much was known. As to whether the brat was Lot's or Uther's, that was anybody's guess. And as for what happened to him, that was totally unknown, to most folks. But then, a few years ago, the rumours sprang up again. Some said he was in Camulod, with you, all along. Others said that you had fled from Camulod and taken the boy with you, and that you were living among the Scots, across the water. Some said the boy was dead, killed in his infant years. I knew nothing and cared less, in those days, because I was too caught up in my own miseries to care about any other's.

"I took no part in Uther's wars because I thought his wars woe no concern of mine. My war was with the folk around me here, who lived in fear of me because of this face of mine. But then, nigh on eight years ago, I met my wife, Martha, and through her, I met her brother Huw, and we became good friends. Since then, I've come to see that not all I had believed was true—most of it was Horseshit, born of self pity. Now I look at life, by and large, through a different eye, you might say, and Huw respects my judgment in most things. So when he told me about you, and about the boy who is your charge, and about who he thought the boy might be, I did some thinking of my own. The lad is Uther's son. Am I right?" »

"What if you are?'

"Why then, the whole world changes, and this whoreson war has found a purpose and a champion. If I am right, then Arthur Pendragon is the rightful king, born to rule in his father's stead, and all this Horseshit over Carthac and that idiot Uderic is pointless. "

"Pointless? How so?'

"Because the real king is with you, in Camulod. All the others are mere posturers! So what we need to do is rid ourselves of all these false claimants—the whole rat's nest of them—and recognize our king, the son of Uther Pendragon. That's why you're here in Cambria, no? To safeguard the boy's interests. "

I cleared my throat. "Well, yes, and no. Arthur is yet too young." I had decided then, and only at that moment, to trust Llewellyn fully. "But there's more to it than that. As his mother's son, he holds a claim to Cornwall, as well. That, more than anything else, is why Ironhair wants him dead. And then, in addition to that, because his mother was the daughter of Athol Mac Iain, once king of the Scots people of Eire, young Arthur has blood claims to that kingship, too. And he is heir to Camulod—not king, mark you, for Camulod will never have a king. He is the great grandson of Publius Varrus of the bow, and great great-nephew to Caius Britannicus, the founders of Camulod."

When I had finished, Llewellyn shook his head slowly. "That is too much information, containing too much danger, Merlyn of Camulod. Why would you tell all that to me, a stranger whom you have never met until today?"

"Because Huw Strongarm trusts you, and I find I do, too, now that I've spoken with you and listened to you. You are strong in your belief in the lightness of the boy's claim to Pendragon Cambria. Would you support him?"

"Of course. I've said so, haven't I?"

"Will you support him now?"

Llewellyn frowned. "Now? How would I do that? He is not here, and you have said he is too young."

"Not too young, yet not quite old enough. He is sixteen, or will be on his next birthday. Right now he needs a teacher, and I think you could be the one to teach him what he needs to know. Would you be willing?"

He slumped back, evidently mystified. "A teacher? Me? The lad would run in fright at the sight of me. Besides, I know nothing worth teaching."

"You don't know the lad, Llewellyn. He would not flinch from the sight of you. And as for your having nothing to teach him, I take leave to doubt that. He is a Cambrian Pendragon, as you are, but he knows nothing of the land or its people. He speaks the tongue, but he does not know the folk. He'll be a warrior of note, I have no doubt of that, yet he knows only cavalry and horses, swords and spears and clubs. He is a big, strong lad, but he's no bowman yet, and he knows nothing of your mountain ways. I would like him to learn these things. No one knows Arthur in this land. That's why the Cave Man tried to kill Bedwyr. But if I bring him here, then everyone will know exactly who he is, because he is with me. Instead I would like you to ride back with me to Camulod, to meet the boy and bring him back here with you, so that he can live a year or so among your clan and learn to be the Pendragon he must become. Would you do that for me? For him?"

"For all of us." He sat silent then, for a long time, and when he spoke again it was with an emphatic nod. "Aye, I would and will. He'll be my prentice. I'll set him to the work of shaping metal, but I'll make him known among the people, too, and he'll be taught the skills he'll need to know—hunting and shooting and living quiet, off the land. When do we go?"