Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

I nodded. "Aye, and it makes good sense." I drew a deep breath. "Would Liam join you in the north eventually?"

"Of course. As soon as we are settled and the wars are done. I'll need his counsel then far more than I need it even now, providing I'm still alive. And even if I'm dead by then, my folk will need him."

"And what of Donuil and Shelagh? What plans have you in mind for them?"

Athol grinned this time. "Think what you ask, man! What plans does any man, king or father, dare make for a newly lovestruck pair? Donuil is your man above all. What was the word? Adjutant? He speaks of being your adjutant some day. I asked him what that meant and what he told me mystified me, and yet, for all my lack of understanding, I found myself approving of the notion. He will learn much that is unknown to us in Eire, and his ward, my grandson, will learn thereby from him." He paused, and then his tone became almost musing. "Apart from that," he said, "young people being what they are, Donuil and Shelagh will have sons. It would be good for our young High King to have cousins to grow up with, don't you think?"

I nodded, pleased by the thought, and then considered all else he had said.

"Athol," I said, eventually, "I can see no objections to your scheme, providing we can have the agreement of Uther's people. It's their land you'll be on, not mine. Camulod lies too far in from the sea to suit your needs."

"Will that be possible, to gain such agreement?"

I thought about that. "It ought to be simply done. None of their people live there, south of Glevum, and the town itself lies ruined. Their relationship with Camulod has always been as allies. I knew most of the elders, when Uther's father was alive, though I have not set foot in the Pendragon lands since Uther became king. I'll visit them again when I return, and seek their agreement, based upon your own promise and mine that Liam's presence will be but a short one—two or three years."

He nodded and stood up. "No more than that. And now I have to meet with Finn and Connor. My thanks, Caius Merlyn. You'll have no cause for regrets in years to come."

"I don't doubt that, King Athol. I, too, should be abroad now. I've been too much out of touch these past few days. I need to inform my men of what's afoot and ready them for the journey home. You have not told them anything, I presume?"

"Nothing at all. No one has. I forbade mention of it until I should have the time to speak with you. You might have refused me, after all . . ."

"What about Donuil and the others?"

"Oh, they all know, and are already making their preparations to depart. The woman Turga, whom you brought to Connor that first day, is still the baby's nurse, ferociously attached to the child. She is a changed woman from the half-witted creature that was led ashore from Connor's galley. She is comely now, and at peace in her mind, still young enough to bear more children of her own. Food and rest, some kindness from our own, and great love for the child she suckles have made a new being out of her. She will go with you, too. It seems to me the morning tide the day after tomorrow might not be too soon."

"It is very soon, Athol."

"Aye, but our enemies could well be about our ears before then. As it is, every day free from attack surprises me. Still, most of our people are here now, safe behind our walls, their villages abandoned. The swine of Garn and MacNyall will be hard put to stamp us out."

"You think they might succeed?"

Athol smiled and grasped my arm. "That, my friend, lies in the dominion of the gods. But I intend to remind those same gods where their loyalties should lie. We shall meet again someday, you and I, when this is over."

I walked with him to the door and watched him walk away, escorted on either side by Fingael and big Cullum, who had been outside together, awaiting him. As he went, I wondered what the future might hold and whether he and I would ever meet again, and then my thoughts focused on Finn, who had not acknowledged my presence as I emerged from the hut with his father. That young man was no friend of me or mine, no matter how his father felt. They disappeared from view around the corner of another hut, and I re-entered mine, flexing my right arm against the pressure of my left fist and thinking I would have little time for exercise or training in the days that lay ahead. I called through the open window to Dedalus, who was practising formation manoeuvres with the rest of our companions in the grassy space behind our camp. While he made his way towards me, I thought briefly about the woman Turga, young Arthur's nurse, whose name I had not known. I had forgotten her completely, assuming that she had served her purpose and been released somehow, though where, and to what end, I could not imagine when I brought my mind to it. Now I realized that I would not have known her had I seen her, which led me to assume that I must have, at some time during my stay here. I resolved to visit her and take her measure, since she was as important to the child Arthur as he was to me. And then Ded entered and our preparations for departure from Eire began.

I told him briefly about the tenor of what Athol and I had decided, and was only mildly surprised that he listened solemnly and merely nodded when I had finished, accepting all I had said without demur. Our discussion thereafter was equally brief, the subject matter being simple and soon dealt with; having decided to return to Britain, there was little for us to do in preparation. Athol's people were the ones who would have to make the necessary arrangements. It merely remained to us to advise our own men and those few others who would travel with us, to pack our possessions, and to present ourselves on the wharf at the appointed time on the chosen day.

As soon as Dedalus left, I draped myself in my heavy cloak and went looking for the woman Turga, determined to set my neglect of her aright and to thank her for her assistance in saving the baby Arthur. Even as I phrased that thought, however, I recognized its towering inadequacy. She alone it was who had saved the baby's life, nourishing him from her teats. All of us who cared for the child were forever in her debt, for the strongest man among us would have been powerless to save young Arthur's life, lacking her contribution. And I had ignored her completely since my arrival here in Eire.

I walked cautiously at first upon leaving my hut, recalling my weakness of the previous day, but I was soon striding confidently, exulting in the growing awareness that my incapacity seemed to have disappeared completely overnight. I saw Connor's wife, Margaret, standing by the open door of her house, talking with another woman, and I made my way directly to her. She blushed deep red and smiled at me nervously as I approached and stopped, and remembering how agonizingly shy she was when faced with strangers, I smiled and nodded amiably as I greeted her, inquiring slowly and with great courtesy if she knew where I might find the woman Turga. Her eyes immediately flew wide in confusion and she darted a glance towards her companion, but before she could say anything, the other turned to me, meeting my gaze boldly, almost defiantly, as though challenging me.

"I am Turga. What do you wish of me?"

The words were strange-sounding, but intelligible, a rough blend of the local Celtic tongue of Cornwall and the liquid, rippling Erse of Athol's people, and I realized that Turga, in her few months here among strangers, had adapted to their ways and to their language more aptly than my own Latin- speaking soldiers could have. But that awareness was swept aside even as it occurred to me, in the face of the new realisation that swept me immediately afterwards. My shock was so great that for several moments I stood gaping like a fish, bereft of words or any kind of sane reaction. I had known I could not remember what she looked like, but I would never have recognised this woman who faced me now as the half-mad wretch I had found keening by her murdered child in front of her ruined house. This woman was a virago, tall and strong, with a commanding presence and a haughty, truculent air about her. She carried her head high and her breasts were proud and thrusting—full of milk, I realized belatedly, as I felt my eyes drawn to them and found myself unable to resist the impulse to stare at them. She stood gazing at me directly, making no move to avert her eyes or her body, or to assist me in my confusion. Finally I found my tongue and looked her straight in the eye.