Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

"Very well, wait for me." I dismounted and walked towards this man, searching my mind for memories of him and examining him as closely as he was examining me. He was not a large man, but was strongly built, bareheaded, compact and wiry with broad, straight shoulders and a thick neck supporting a high-held, proud head. His long, black hair and long, flowing moustaches in the Celtic fashion on an otherwise clean-shaven face gave him an air of severity. His clothing was simple, yet strikingly barbaric to my Romanized eyes. An almost-knee-length, kilted tunic of dark green wool, with an embroidered border of yellow leaves around the hem and across the yoke of his chest provided the only strong colours. His legs were covered by sheepskin leggings, worn fleece inward, onto which had been sewn small, overlapping, rectangular metal plates that gave a metallic ring to his walk and he wore a heavy breastplate of thickened bull hide, covered with the same plates, two larger, thicker pieces covering his breasts. A heavy cloak, fastened with a broad, silver clasp of interwoven snakes, had been thrown back over his shoulders so that it hung behind him, leaving his arms free. The arms were strong, heavily muscled and protected from wrist to elbow by thick leather armlets. A broad belt, slung across his chest from right to left, supported a heavy, much-used-looking sword, bare-bladed and slung simply through a ring of metal, and a second belt, of plain leather, girdled his waist and held an ornately hilted dagger in a jewelled leather sheath.

We stopped together, facing each other from a distance of a couple of paces. He spoke first.

"Merlyn," he said, nodding in greeting, his face otherwise expressionless. "It's been many years. What brings you to Pendragon lands? And with so many followers?"

I still could not remember him, although I knew we must have met, since he so evidently knew me. I returned his nod. "Dergyll, is it not?"

"Aye, that's right. Dergyll, son of Griffyd. My father was brother to Uric Pendragon."

"So we are kin?"

He shrugged. "Aye, of some kind, but not close. You have not answered me. What brings you here?"

"Horses."

He raised an eyebrow, looking beyond me to where my thousand men sat ranked in their five divisions.

"Aye," he said. "I can see that. Many horses, and large." He looked back at me and his mouth quirked slightly into what might have been a grin, although I could not know for sure beneath the fullness of his moustache. "There is one grand and tragic thing about horses, Merlyn. Do you know what it is?"

I was unsure how to respond, unable to define his attitude as either hostile or placatory. I decided to assume arrogance. "Aye," I said. "They are invincible, particularly against men on foot, or on smaller horses."

He was definitely smiling now, but his smile had a hard edge. "That's grand enough, I grant, but where is the tragedy in that?"

"Among the men on foot."

"Ah! I see. But no, you are wrong, Merlyn, and there's the right of it. Against most men on foot, you may be right, but against Pendragon? No. There you are sadly ill-advised. The tragedy of horses such as yours is that they make such grand targets." He raised his left hand straight into the air, holding it, with fingers spread, above his head, then turned his head slowly to his left. I swung my head with his and felt my skin chill with gooseflesh as the entire hillside above us, empty and bare until this moment, came to life. Everywhere, men threw back the covers over pits dug in the ground and came pouring into view, forming ranks rapidly, deploying into massed formations of bowmen, each nocking an arrow to his long bow and taking aim at the packed mass of my formations on the slope below. A full two hundred paces separated the closest of the bowmen from my men, but I knew that distance was as nothing to the great longbows. Close on four hundred men, I gauged, and likely more. Certainly more than sufficient, firing in massed volleys, to wipe out my cavalry before we could ever reach them. I fought to keep my own face expressionless, masking my dismay.

Now it was my turn to raise my arm, bidding my own men stand fast. I turned around to see Dedalus repeating my gesture. Behind him, my men remained immobile. I drew a deep breath, determined to allow my voice to show no tremor, and turned back to Dergyll.

"Very impressive," I told him. "But we expected no less. Uther used the same tactic frequently. I knew you would not expose yourself as you have done without good reason. I think, however, that you misunderstood what I said. I meant we came in search of horses, not mounted on them."

Again he raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"One of our border outposts was attacked, before the winter set in. All our men there were killed and forty horses stolen. We found Pendragon arrows in our men. The horses we could live without, but we could not ignore the slaughter. Before the snow came on we followed the trail of the horses. It led here. Before we could mount a proper expedition to find them, the winter came."

"I see. And as soon as the snow melted, you set out again."

I nodded.

"So you bring war against us?"

"No, I think not." He eyed me in silence, waiting for me to continue. "I think we rode against the men whose bodies hang from the oak grove back there."

"Hmm." It was neither question nor comment. I hurried on.

"I think whoever hanged them did our work for us, and I think it was you. If I am correct, and it was you, then I believe there is no quarrel between Camulod and your people. The hanged men back there were not Pendragon, at least most of them were not."

"How do you know that?"

"Huw Strongarm told me. He said there were only two Pendragon faces among the corpses. The others were landless."

"Aye. Renegades all, human filth. They slaughtered as many of our people, probably more of them, than they did yours. How many did you lose?"

"Close to fifty."

"We count ours in hundreds, thanks to your contribution to our wars."

That confused me, as he saw by my immediate frown. "What do you mean, my contribution? Your wars are no concern of mine."

He shook his head slightly. "Not yours personally, Camulod's."

I still had no idea of what he meant. "That is nonsense," I said. "What possible contribution might Camulod have made to your wars? I command in Camulod, with my brother Ambrose, and I would know of any such interference. This force here is the first from Camulod ever to set foot in Pendragon country."

"The first armed force, aye. I was thinking of force of another kind." He paused, his head tilted to one side, and suddenly I remembered him from that gesture. We had been friends, one summer long ago, when we were both but boys, years short of man's estate. I remembered him swimming like a fish and springing up from the water onto a bank, shaking the water from his long hair and tilting his head that way to look at me.

"I remember you now," I said.

"Aye, as I said, it has been many years, but I did not know you had a brother."

"A half-brother, and I did not know, either, until a short time ago. For almost thirty years we lived apart, in ignorance each of the other's existence. Now we are close. But I still don't know what you are talking about. What kind of force can there be that is not armed?"

"Personality, Merlyn. Character. The force of one strong man who can control and dominate one weaker than himself."

I blew the breath from my mouth sharply, turning away impatiently, my mind racing over his words and seeking his meaning. Above me on the hillside, the serried ranks of Pendragon bowmen stood looking down, alert and menacing. I glanced towards my own men, then swung back to face Dergyll.

"Look here, Dergyll, are we to fight? I seek no quarrel with you, but I believe you have our horses. I do not believe you stole them, or that you were responsible for any of the deaths in Camulod. But they were back there, by the grove of oaks, no later than a day ago, and if indeed you hanged the renegades back there, then you must have taken the horses."