Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

"Shelagh," I could hear the tension in my own voice. "I have lost track of time. Forgive me, but I promised Ambrose I would spend the afternoon with him, talking to people on a matter of great urgency, and it is long past noon. The time has flown. Will you permit me to. . . leave now?" The hesitation had been very slight, but I had almost used the word "escape." I wondered fleetingly if she had noticed, but her response showed she had not. In a moment she was on her feet, taking my hand in a tight, two-handed grasp.

"Of course, Caius," she said. "Go now, but before you do, tell me this. Do you believe, completely without reservation, that I will guard your trust in this?"

I raised her hands to my lips and kissed her fingers, feeling the fiery contact searing into my memory and being branded there with the scent of her skin. "Completely, and without reservation. Now pardon me, I must go." I spun on my heel and walked from the room, humiliatingly aware of my own arousal and cursing myself for my perfidy.

Recalling that as I lay in my cot that first night in my solitary hunting camp, I felt myself stirring again and turned my thoughts to another topic: the matter that had taken me to meet with Ambrose that same afternoon.

I had originally accepted Ambrose's opinion on the schism within our forces without argument, simply because I had been convinced with that curious, half-blind arrogance that seems to lie within all of us, that the opinion he expressed was merely that—a personal perspective on a minor problem. I had not questioned his belief in the troublesome division he reported, nor did I doubt the existence of the dichotomy itself. The unfortunate corollary was that I had equally little doubt that the phenomenon must be no more than a minor, distracting irritant—a barrack-room philosopher's complaint, born of some misunderstanding, then broadcast and blown out of all proportion. I had, at root, no doubt of my own power to correct it merely by directing my attentions towards healing the rift. In consequence, I began my remedial efforts on the afternoon following our discussion, blithely confident that the problem, once defined and isolated, and once I had shown that I was concerned about it, would dry up and disappear in a spontaneous explosion of Colony-wide goodwill and military solidarity.

By the end of the second day, however, it had become obvious, even through an intransigence as vast as mine was then, that matters were far from well within Camulod's once close-knit little army. Dismayed by what I had already discovered, I had taken leave of Council that morning to absent myself from the regularly scheduled session, for even by then it had become undeniable that Ambrose was right, and that the rivalries between the men who formed our two main forces were much less than amicable. Underlying, deep hostilities had surfaced rapidly in the recent past and now I could see they were but thinly masked, and that impending violence between our cavalry and infantry lay buried by no more than a single, shallow layer of ill- borne discipline.

The recognition of another pair of competing factions destroyed my complacency. Aware that the consternation caused by the affair of the Farmers and the Artisans had not yet had time to fade from the minds of the Colonists at large, I was appalled to find myself facing a similar, frighteningly comparable situation, this time within my own command. And in this instance there appeared to be no obvious progenitors—no identifiable group who were recognizably at fault. My initial, instinctive reactions to what I found beneath my nose were fear and dismay, quickly followed by a violent urge to roar and rend—to vent my anger and outrage on my disgruntled troops—which, of course, I could not do without the risk of provoking them to outright rebellion. The officer cadre, however, was another matter, and for a short time I came close to yielding to the temptation to create havoc within those ranks. I gave thanks to God many times thereafter for the presence of my brother and his placid, unruffled perception and wisdom. He cajoled me and calmed me, diverted my anger, and made me see and finally accept that my own complicity, through simple ignorance, was as great as any other's. I slept poorly that night, nevertheless, and then for no more than an hour or so.

On the morning of the third day, we held the meeting we had planned, assembling all the officers in garrison at the time—Staff, Field and Warrant ranks, Cavalry and Infantry. Dedalus and his six comrades from our Eirish travels were in attendance, their expedition to Glevum summarily postponed for the time being pending the outcome of this plenary officers' conference, the first formal Tribunal ever held in Camulod for the resolution of a purely military domestic emergency. It was convened, for the sake of privacy and security, in the old, now-empty but still well-maintained Villa Britannicus on the plain beneath the hill of Camulod. No guards were assigned to duty there that day, and no servants permitted within the Villa confines. We fed ourselves between sessions from cooking fires lit outside the gates. The word had been passed among the attendees the previous day and everyone arrived at the Villa at the pre-ordained time, within half an hour after the break of dawn. The Colonists must have speculated wildly at the sight of the entire complement of the garrison's officers blearily making their way, singly and in small groups, down the road from the main gates in the pre-dawn darkness, but their speculation would go unresolved for many days, since everyone who attended that extraordinary session was sworn to secrecy.

The order of the proceedings was straightforward, and the first directive was that the two disciplines, horse and foot, should mingle in equality, no two of either discipline sitting together. There were almost two hundred officers present, and Ambrose and I shared the office of Convenor. I began by outlining the situation succinctly and forcefully, apportioning no blame and voicing no criticism. I defined the Schism, as I had come to think of it, as a military fact requiring an immediate solution, and then threw the topic open for debate.

By the end of the day, as the sun was going down, we had made progress, but the process had been noisy and at times almost unruly. Voices had been raised in angry disagreement at various times, and acrimonious insults had flown freely, but I believed that no new enmities had been forged and no lasting ill will fomented. A consensus had been reached: the problem that faced us was dangerous, inimical to the well-being of the Colony. It behoved all of us, therefore, to act together, according to the dictates of a carefully defined agenda, to pour soothing balm on the hurts, real and imaginary, suffered by each side in this dispute at the hands of the other. The primary difficulty, of course, would lie in the identification and definition of a solution, and in the development of a means of putting it into effect.

As I might have expected, it was Dedalus who came up with the most practical observation, after having sat for some time, bent forward, in a huddled conversation with Philip, Quintus and Rufio, all of whom were grouped close by him, interspersed among infantry officers.

"Commander!" He held up his hand, demanding my attention, and when I recognized him he rose slowly, looking around at his assembled colleagues while addressing me. "I've been talking with some of the people around us, from both sides—" He broke off, apparently realizing too late what he had said, and then grinned his rogue's grin. "Your pardon . . . from both viewpoints might be a better way of phrasing that." Everyone laughed and I immediately felt more sanguine about the outcome of this affair.

"Aye. It might. Captain Dedalus," I answered him, allowing my face to crease into a slow smile and provoking more, but restrained laughter. "But guard your mouth from now on. No more seditious talk. We are one force, you know."