Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

The refectory was chaotic that morning, a maelstrom of screaming cooks and running lackeys, all grossly overtaxed by the demands of having to feed so many people at one time and within hours. By the time we re-emerged from it, however, having exercised our privilege of rank and broken our fast on fresh-baked bread and tender, succulent meat cut for us by one of the senior cooks from a spitted, broiling carcass that would be served cold later that day, we were both feeling vastly improved. There was activity everywhere and the evidence of the increased presence of our troops was unmistakable, with work parties hurrying hither and yon under the watchful eyes of those in charge, and an air of irrepressible gaiety widespread, in spite of the biting cold. Great piles of fuel had been stacked close to every firepit on the summit outside the walls and even, on this one auspicious occasion, against the interior surfaces of the walls themselves wherever there was space not yet occupied by buildings. They would be needed, too, for the day seemed to be growing colder by the moment.

Most of the troops had long since returned from the outposts, but some were still out there upon the roads, such as they were, and these would continue to arrive throughout the morning. I had no doubt that every pile of wood would feed a fire before the morning passed. The day's main activities were scheduled to begin after the noontime meal, which would be a festive one, despite the fact that the individual units must remain together and be ready to parade when summoned.

Ambrose and I had found ourselves in a unique situation that morning, for we had done all that we could do in preparation for this day's events and were now constrained to leave the final details in the hands of those to whom we had delegated the tasks. We had agreed during our meal together that it would be both unkind and unwise to let it appear now that we lacked trust in anyone, and so for once we found ourselves at liberty to while away some time in idleness while everyone about us worked with twice the normal intensity.

Amused by the thought, and by the novelty of this sensation of irresponsibility, we set out to saunter at our leisure through the camp, but our progress was quickly retarded by the necessity of responding to an unending series of deferential greetings, and the ensuing awkward small talk with harried men, which invariably interrupted the performance of some task. Both of us quickly wearied of it and sought the silence of Aunt Luceiia's house, where, to no one's surprise, we were attended by the Lady Ludmilla. She told us she had been awake for the greater part of the night, assisting Master Lucanus—she would never think of him as "Luke"; that was my privilege as his friend—in his efforts to deliver a healthy child to the unfortunate woman Lucanus had spoken of the previous night. I was surprised to learn that the child had been born to Hector, one of our youngest and brightest Council members, and his wife Julia, both of whom I knew and admired. Hector, in particular, stood out among the councilors because he was a successful farmer who had had no ties with the Farmers faction, having chosen instead to tend to his own affairs and improve the quality of his arable land and his crops consistently from year to year without significant input from any other farm. I mentioned that I had met Luke on his way to the Infirmary for that purpose. He had not named the woman, which I privately thought strange, since he knew I was friendly with her and her husband. I said nothing of that to Ludmilla, however, who reported that Julia and her newborn son were healthy and well, and that the birth had occurred naturally and easily, with no need for Luke's bright, shiny knives. In gratitude, she added, and this information made me smile with pleasure, Julia had asked permission of Lucanus to name the child after him, a request with which, according to Ludmilla, Lucanus had seemed embarrassed and reluctant to comply, although he did not refuse. How could he, indeed? The child's name-granting lay within the parents' power alone, and the honour bestowed upon Lucanus was one he was powerless to refuse. From that topic, we moved on to discuss the rising number of children being born in Camulod. Fifteen had been birthed within the short months of the previous summer, as far as we could tally, and of those, twelve had survived, an extremely high number, attributable, we were sure, to the methods of Lucanus and his passion for cleanliness and meticulous postnatal care for both mothers and children.

Sometime later, having exhausted the conversation, and aware that my presence had become a patiently borne burden to the others, besotted as they were with each other, I went into the Armoury where, to my surprise and delight, I found Shelagh contemplating an array of knives and daggers mounted to one side on the central wall. Her back was to me and she had not heard me enter—she had left the door ajar again—and so, having set out towards her, I stopped before she could notice me and indulged myself in the simple, but deliciously guilty pleasure of observing her. Even from behind, she was ravishingly lovely, her long, self-willed tresses sweeping in cascades across her shoulders and more than half-way down her back. She stood on tiptoe, peering upward, her hands braced on a table-top, and her stance threw the clean lines of hips and buttocks into relief beneath the softness of the single garment draped from her shoulders and circled with a loose-looped leather girdle. She moved once, reaching further, straining to touch the metal of a wicked, broad-leafed blade with one fingertip, and my heart leapt to see what the movement revealed to my prying eyes: taut slimness of waist and swell of half-glimpsed breast beneath her upraised arm. I dared not stay a moment longer without announcing myself. So rapt was she in her scrutiny, however, that she remained unaware of me until I spoke.

"Good morning, Lady. You have an affinity for blades, I have observed."

She leapt backward and spun to face me, startled at the suddenness and closeness of my voice. "Oh, it's you, Commander Merlyn. Good morning. Knives, yes. Blades, only occasionally." She had regained her composure very quickly. "I should not be in here, should I?"

I smiled and shook my head. "No, you are welcome now. That rule—if rule it ever was—no longer applies. The only reason for my anger last time was the alarm I felt over my careless betrayal of my secret. Now you are privy to that secret, no secrecy applies."

She curtsied gracefully in the Roman fashion, holding her skirts out to her sides and dipping low, head bowed. "My thanks to you, Commander."

"Where did you learn to do that?" I asked, betraying my surprise. "I'll wager you would never do it at home in Eire."

Her eyes flashed and she tossed her head. "I never have, but who is to say I never will? I make my own rules of behaviour, Merlyn, and the man has not been born who can change any of them!"

I grinned, charmed by her scornful mettle. "Not even Donuil?"

"No, not even he." Then she relented, breaking into a smile. "Although he might persuade me in some things. He has a honeyed tongue, you know."

I grimaced. "Aye, I know. He has used it with me, too, although hardly in the way he must with you." I was suddenly and completely ill at ease with this conversation and my mind began to leap around, seeking alternative topics. Shelagh, however, was warming to her subject.

"He's a lovely man," she murmured, her thoughts evidently far from the Armoury. "I hope he comes back soon."

"He will," I assured her. "As soon as he can possibly make his way. Tell me about your knives."

If the abrupt change of direction surprised her, Shelagh gave no sign of it. "My knives," she said. "What would you like to know?"

"Anything, everything. Why do you have so many?"