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

"Well, your consolation may lie in the fact that, a month from now, there will be no sign of this. For the next few days, however, your face is going to be a sight to behold. I hope you won?"

His headshake and the way his eyes moved off to gaze into the distance told me he had not.

"Who was it? Gwin? Bedwyr?"

"No." He still would not look at me, even though I held him by the chin. I released my grip and stepped back.

"Who, then?" Even as I asked the question I could see it would go unanswered. There was a stubborn cast to his countenance that was highly uncharacteristic of this normally sunny youngster. I shrugged, to show him I was really unconcerned. "I have no intention of pursuing the matter, Arthur. I merely asked out of curiosity. The damage is already done. It's boys' business and no concern of mine—men have no place in such affairs."

"And yet they take an interest, sometimes." The boy's words came out as a truculent mumble, causing me to narrow my eyes at once.

"What was that? Who takes what? What are you talking about?"

"Men. They sometimes take an interest in the wars of boys."

"Arthur, what are you talking about? You're not making sense." He continued to glower, his young face dark with anger. "Are you saying a man hit you, not a boy?"

"No. I fought with Droc and he beat me."

"I'm sure he did." Droc was one of Derek's eldest sons, at least three years older than Arthur and big for his age, so close to being identical to his own elder brother Landroc that the pair were often mistaken for twins and were inseparable. Arthur was a big lad for his age, too, but his bigness was yet but a promise, and his present frame was long and gangling. I estimated, now that I had reason to think of it, that Droc must be at least half again Arthur's weight. I waited, but it was clear no reaction would be forthcoming.

"What in God's name possessed you to fight with Droc? He's almost as big as I am." The boy made no response at all. "Not going to tell me? Well, then, I'll have to believe it was insanity, although I've never seen the slightest hint of that in you before today. But you said something about men interfering in boys' affairs. Did someone stop the fight?"

"No."

"Well, someone should have. Come on, I'll ride down with you to the fort. Where are the others, Bedwyr and Gwin and Ghilleadh?"

Arthur shook his head. "I don't know. I left them behind, after the fight. I didn't want them with me."

"I see. Were they involved at all?"

Another silent headshake was all I received in answer to that question, and I straightened up, all at once impatient with the boy's unusual reticence.

"Very well, let's be away. Bring your pony, but there's no point in trying to ride down, for the first stretch at least. We'll have to walk."

He collected his pony and we began to wind our way downward in silence, concentrating on where we placed our feet, since the iron nails that studded the soles and heels of our sandalled boots could find no purchase on the hard cobblestones that made up the surface of the road, making every step a matter of careful balance and the threat of a painful fall.

We remounted eventually, once we had achieved the gentler slopes at the bottom of the ridge below the crest, and rode on without speaking, hunched against the battering of the wind. We had almost reached the junction of the roadway and the approach to the fort before either of us spoke again. It was Arthur who broke the silence.

"Ghilleadh found a Roman short-sword—a gladium."

I glanced at him in surprise. "Did he indeed? Where? And how do you know it was Roman?"

"It was lying in the long grass on the hillside beneath the western gate, and it had been there for a long, long time.

Almost rusted away completely, but it was Roman. The hilt was bronze. I've seen dozens just like it in the Armoury at Camulod. Some soldier must have either dropped it or thrown it away, a long time ago. It was probably thrown there, because it was a long way down from the gate and far from any pathway."

"Hmm, I'd like to see that. Will you ask Ghilleadh to show it to me?"

"He can't. Droc took it away from him."

I immediately began to ask myself why a big lad like Droc would be interested in the rusted remnant of an old Roman sword, but then all at once I knew, alerted by the tension radiating from my young companion. Droc had taken it to prove a point of some kind. He had played the bully.

"So that's why you fought Droc. He took the sword away from Ghilleadh."

"Mmm ... "

This time the silence lasted until we were almost inside the fort again. When I drew rein he stopped, too, looking up at me expectantly. I sat thinking for long moments before I spoke.

"Arthur," I said, finally, "I don't want you to think that I am prying, poking my snout into private affairs that -are none of my concern ... " He nodded, a slight crease between his brows as I hesitated. "Having said that, however, I will admit to you that I am more than merely curious. You made a reference, back up there on the hilltop, and from it I suspect that some man, somewhere, has interfered in something that concerns you. I think there is more to this whole affair than you are admitting."

Yet again I paused, deliberately, leaving him ample time to say whatever might have been in his mind, but he guarded his silence, his mouth held now in the semblance of a pout, although no other sign of distemper showed itself upon his open face. I sucked in a deep breath and finished what I had to say.

"There are times when I feel that you and I are more than simply master and student, more than mere cousins, man and boy. At such times, I like to think that we are friends, in the true sense of the word—equal creatures of like mind and temperament, with mutual tastes and complementary opinions and the ability to discuss things openly between ourselves without acrimony or evasion. Do you ever feel that way?"

I felt scorn at myself for my shameless manipulation of the boy, who now sat gazing at me, nodding his head slowly in agreement, his face clouded with the naked need to discuss the matters that were troubling him. He coughed, and then glanced about him, his eyes flitting up to look at the top of the gate-tower ahead of us, and then down again to scan the empty pathway on either side.

"Yes," he said, in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. "I'd like to tell you what happened, but ... not here."

"Of course not. We'll go to my quarters. I have some cold apple juice there, crushed this morning in the kitchens, and some fresh bread. Meet me there as soon as you have unsaddled your pony and rubbed him down. He would benefit from a good grooming."

I stabled Germanicus, unsaddling him without haste and rubbing him down thoroughly with a rough towel, even though he had not even broken a sweat on our short outing. Arthur, I knew, would have a much more difficult task with his own mount, and I knew it was one he would not shirk, for the discipline of caring for their ponies was one that had been painstakingly drilled into each of the boys. Any evidence of carelessness in tending their animals would immediately ensure the dire punishment of forfeiture of riding privileges for anything from a single day to an entire week. When I had finished, ensuring that my horse had both food and drink within reach, I made my way slowly back to my quarters, whistling an old marching tune under my breath and wondering what could possibly have upset the boy so profoundly.

I was still wondering about that, and still struggling against the temptation to think instead of young Tressa and her breasts, when Arthur knocked and entered. About half an hour had passed since we parted, and I saw immediately from his expression that whatever had been troubling him was still paramount in his mind. He accepted the cup of unfermented apple juice I offered him and then sank wordlessly into one of the two large armchairs that flanked the open, stone fireplace against the long wall at the rear of the room. I watched him closely, noting his frowning concentration as I poured myself some wine and went to sit across from him.