Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 1 - The Fort at River's Bend

He had heard nothing, either, from Vortigern's country to the far north-east, and so he expected that nothing there had changed. Vortigern, despite his ever-increasing problems with the Outlanders he had brought in years before to help him protect his people, must still be in control there, Ambrose believed, or we would have heard something to the contrary, and that, in turn, meant that Hengist the Dane was yet hale enough to dominate his fractious son Horsa.

Young Arthur sat quietly, listening to what was being said, his narrowed, tightly focused eyes indicating that his interest in what he was hearing was absolute. I noticed his head come up at the mention of Vortigern's name, and I saw plainly, from the look in his eyes, that he wished to speak, although I knew he would never have dreamed of interrupting us.

"What is it, Arthur? You look as though you have something you wish to say."

The boy stiffened and flushed with embarrassment at being noticed, and he began to shake his head, almost squirming in his sudden discomfort and plainly wishing the floor would open and swallow him. Watching him, I divined the source of his discomfiture immediately, and I found myself biting my lip distractedly, somewhat guiltily aware that the lessons I had been teaching him all winter had sunk home too well.

Ever since he and his companions had boisterously broken in on me on one occasion several months before, interrupting me without warning and distracting me greatly while I was in conference with Derek and his advisers on the terms and conditions that would apply to our tenancy of Derek's lands at Mediobogdum, I had taken considerable pains to convince the lad of the need for decorum in his behaviour around grown-ups. I was furious at the outset, and Arthur was made well aware that he had behaved badly that day, and that I had been much inconvenienced and put out of countenance by his thoughtlessness and irresponsibility.

It occurred to me now, however, upon seeing his reaction to my casual comment, that what I had viewed with so much displeasure had been no more than boyish high spirits finding their own outlet as they always have and always will. I had been too hard on the lad, to such an extent, indeed, that he squirmed now upon merely being addressed.

Ambrose looked, in some astonishment, from Arthur's face to mine, raising his eyebrow as if to ask me what in God's name was going on. Stricken by momentary cowardice, I merely shrugged. Ambrose looked back at the boy, whose head was hanging.

"Arthur? What's wrong with you? Do you have to pee?"

The boy looked up, his face flushed, and met Ambrose's gaze. "No, Uncle Ambrose."

'Then what's wrong with you? Didn't you hear what your Uncle Cay asked you?"

"Yes ... He asked if I had something I wished to say."

"And? Do you?" Arthur shook his head, very slightly, and not at all convincingly. "What's that? You have nothing to say?"

"No, Uncle."

"Well, there's a novelty! You have been sitting there listening to us for what, an hour? And you have nothing to say, no questions to ask, no comments to make? Are you Arthur Pendragon? Don't sit there staring at me, lad! I asked you a question. I thought you were my nephew, but now there seems to be some doubt. Are you Arthur Pendragon?"

The suggestion of a smile came and went from the boy's mouth. "Yes, Uncle Ambrose, I am."

"You are, by God! I thought you were. Then what's wrong with you? Why have you no questions in your head, for the first time ever since you learned to say a word? Have you been stricken mute? Have ants devoured your brain? Speak to me, boy! Tell me you are still alive, unchanged, unchallenged and unchained!"

Now young Arthur was smiling widely, his eyes dancing at his uncle's wit and ebullience, but he ducked his head again and deferred to me. "Uncle Cay has told me that young boys' opinions have no place in men's discussions."

"No, Arthur, that is not true—" I broke off, seeing the shocked surprise and disbelief in his startled eyes. I rose and moved to where he sat, laying my hand firmly on his shoulder as I sat down beside him. "Your Uncle Ambrose has no idea what we are talking about here, but you and I do, only too well." I then told Ambrose the story of Arthur and his friends interrupting my session with Derek and his counsellors and the lesson I had tried to teach.

I straightened up and sighed, looking only at Arthur, who gazed back, steadfastly now, into my eyes.

"I set out to teach you a lesson: that boys' voices have no place in men's affairs when and if their contributions are mere boyish noises and ill manners. I can see that you have learned that. But I also see now that you may have learned it too well, and incompletely. Can you see why speaking out tonight would be a different matter, and not an offence to your uncle and me? Think, please, as well as I know you are capable of thinking, about what I have just said." Even as I was saying the words I saw his brow clear and he nodded, slowly. "Aha. You see it now, the difference?"

Again he nodded. "Yes, I think so."

"Good. What is it?"

"Boys' voices have no place in men's affairs when and if their contributions are mere loud noises and ill manners ... " He arched his eyebrows the way he did in class, before he would articulate some thought that had occurred to him. "If that is true, it follows logically, therefore, that boys' voices may have some place in those affairs if they are serious and well informed." His eyes flicked from me to my brother and back to me. "Is that not so?"

"Aye, it is." I could smile again now, and I laid my hand on his head. "Serious is the key word, meaning sober and attentive and respectful. But a serious boy need not necessarily be well informed. Well intentioned might be a better way of putting it, for well-intentioned questions, well presented at the proper time, can lead to his becoming well informed ... Now, if you can remember what you wanted to contribute to this discussion, ask away."

The boy went very still, his gaze sharpening and his brows creasing very slightly as he marshalled his thoughts. Then he rocked from side to side, placing his hands palms down on his seat and anchoring them with his thighs, after which he sat hunched forward, gazing into the middle distance. I looked across his head to where Ambrose sat watching. Our eyes met, and Ambrose raised his eyebrows in a gesture of tolerant amusement, but our boy had now finished his deliberations.

"Not so much a question as a wondering," Arthur said. "I was wondering why it is that every great leader seems to carry the seeds of his own defeat with him, and why some of them manage to avoid having those seeds germinate, while others fail and perish because of them."

It was my turn now to be astonished. From time to time this boy, who lived and functioned as a normal, wild and thoughtless boy from day to day, was capable of coming up with the most astoundingly complex thoughts, observations and conclusions.

"Were we discussing that?"

"No, but you were talking of Vortigern."

"Yes, and where is the relevance to our discussion in your question?"

My tolerant question of the boy drew a disparaging glance and a withering response from the seldom-seen but very impressive man who dwelt inside him. "Isn't that obvious? Vortigern sowed the seeds of his own downfall When he imported Hengist's Danes to stand with him against the other invaders. My great-grandfather, Publius Varrus, wrote about it in his books, and so did Uncle Picus, and so have you, in your writings. In his hope of keeping the foxes away from his ducks, he brought a wolf into his house to live with him. He has committed the same basic error that the Romans did, when they took subject races and trained them in their own way of fighting, teaching them to overthrow the Empire. Alexander the Great, on the other hand, was far more fortunate. His weakness went unperceived."