Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

I watched him stride away, suddenly uncomfortable with this unexpected mention of factions within the Council, and all the ominous implications. I have no idea how long I stood there fretting, but presently I heard Aunt Luceiia call my name and went back into the Armoury, where I replaced Excalibur in its case and resealed it beneath the floorboards. She watched me in silence throughout the reinterment of the case, and neither of us spoke until we were once again sitting in front of the brazier in her quarters. I waited, sensing that she had much to say to me, and she did not keep me waiting long.

"Well . . ." she began, pausing immediately. "The mere sight of that sword brought me a new perspective on your talk of dreams." I sat still, feeling slightly uncomfortable, and she snorted, a sound that might have been a smothered laugh or an indication of withering scorn. "The egotist within me was offended, at first, greatly insulted. That is why I wanted to be alone." I merely nodded, and she went on. "Why—this was the first, treacherous, self-pitying thought that occurred to me on seeing it—would Publius keep the existence of this sword concealed from me? It is plainly the most wonderful creation, and the most precious possession, of his entire life. And if he had kept this secret, how many others might he have had throughout his lifetime? What else of Publius Varrus exists beyond my private little world that I had thought so all-encompassing?" She paused again, but this time her lips creased in wry, self-disparaging amusement and I immediately felt better as she continued gently, "I am no less human and insecure than any other wife, it would seem, even after all this time." She sniffed dryly, accepting the folly of her own words. "Of course, as soon as I began to think clearly, I realized I was being silly. The mere knowledge, let alone possession, of a sword like that would endanger anyone. I am quite sure nothing like it has ever existed. No emperor ever possessed such a weapon. Men would fight wars to own it."

"Those were your husband's exact words." My interruption was involuntary, startled out of me. It won me a smile from her.

"I believe you. So, having made it, Publius could never have unmade it. And he would wish to see it put to great and noble use. Hence your reference to his dream and your grandfather's. Did Caius ever see it?"

I nodded, a sudden lump closing my throat. "He was the first to use it, saving my life. He cut down Seneca with it."

"Ah!" Her voice died away on a long exhalation, then: "Who else has seen it?"

"You and I. No other eyes alive have looked on it. Father Andros designed the hilt and cross-guard, Equus worked on the blade and the mould for the hilt, and Plautus was in the forge when Uncle Varrus cracked it open. And Grandfather Caius used it to kill Seneca. Only those five had seen it, before me—except, of course, for Seneca and his animals, none of whom recognised what they were seeing or survived the sighting."

"Cracked what open?"

"The mould. Uncle Varrus poured the entire hilt and cross-guard as one solid piece, bonded to the tang. Excalibur means 'out of a mould.' "

"I see." She was quiet again, and I saw her lips frame the name before she said, musingly, "I thought it merely a poetic name, chosen for its beauty alone, for it has a power to it, a sonority." Her thoughts changed direction again. "So! Having created such a thing, their need was to conceal it from men's knowledge until the time had come to make it known, and thus, you became the Guardian. And now you believe that time will have arrived when the child Arthur is grown?" I nodded. "Did Uther know of it?"

"No, Auntie, he did not. Uncle Varrus felt Uther was too rash, too headstrong, to be entrusted with the secret."

"Hmm. He was correct, too. That does not surprise me. Publius Varrus was seldom wrong. Nor did it surprise me, upon reflection, that he had kept the knowledge of the sword from me. He was protecting me, believing ignorance would keep me safe if things went awry in some unforeseen way." She fixed me with a gaze that would brook no evasion. "What more can you tell me of my great-grandson?"

"No more than I have told you already, Aunt Luceiia. He was strong, lusty and in glowing health when I saw him last. He is a big child, and should grow to be a large man."

"Arthur Pendragon . . ." She savoured the sound of it. "Arthur Britannicus Varrus Pendragon." She heaved a great, sharp, gusting sigh. "Well, I shall simply have to find the energy to stay alive until you can bring him back from Hibernia. After that, I shall be prepared for death, knowing that our family will live on."

I returned her smile, but my mind was busy elsewhere now. "Auntie, forgive me, but I have little time and I have to ask you some questions about the Council."

Her face fell instantly into repose. "What questions?"

"About factions, divided loyalties perhaps. I don't know. Lucanus only mentioned to me within the hour, while I was standing outside the Armoury, that I should speak with you on the topic. I'm due at the meeting very soon now."

"Of course you are, how stupid of me. I really am growing old, Cay, forgetting things. . ." She clasped her hands in her lap, stretching and interlacing her fingers. "Very well, I shall speak and you will listen. What I have to tell you is very brief. Armed with it, nevertheless, you will be forewarned and prepared to draw your own conclusions." The next quarter of an hour passed quickly as I sat rapt, caught up in her tidings and assessing her information from two separate, but not dissimilar perspectives. The first of these was concerned with the immediate problems I faced in the resumption of my responsibilities towards Camulod, and the other entailed the effect those problems might have—if not correctly and summarily dealt with— upon the months-old child now being held hostage in Eire. Arthur Britannicus Varrus Pendragon, as my aunt had properly named him, would one day soon return to live here in Camulod, and mine would be the task of rearing him to manhood. Camulod would be his inheritance, and its governance would be his lifelong duty, in obligation to all of his ancestral names. Larger things might befall Arthur in the life that stretched ahead of him, but none of them would be greater than this, his first and foremost charge. Yet what my aunt was telling me—this damnable thing of factions—posed a threat not merely to the child, but to all we had planned for him and for the future. And so I listened closely and thought deeply, engrossed by the subtle layers in Aunt Luceiia's lucid presentation of her tidings.

The Council of Camulod had grown greatly since I had last paid formal attention to it. Where formerly I would have looked to see a single circle of some twenty men, the elders of the Colony appointed for their wisdom, knowledge and tolerance, I now beheld a double ring of chairs, forty-eight in number. Six of these chairs were occupied by women, the senior members of Aunt Luceiia's ancillary Council of Women. The other forty-two were filled by men, and from the information given me by Aunt Luceiia and amplified by my own observations before entering the chamber I could now see quite clearly the factions to which Lucanus had referred.

Four men had greeted me more warmly and solicitously than any others as I made my way through the crowded courtyard outside the Council Hall on my way to the meeting; four men whom I might not easily have recognized without my newly acquired awareness. Two of these were leaders, two followers. Now, in the gathering that swept out and around from where I stood behind the Speaker's Chair, I could still see them clearly. To my left, in a close-knit group fourteen strong, sat the adherents of Lucius Varo, the most notable among them his adviser, Bonno. Lucius was the direct descendant of Quintus Varo, who had been brother-in-law by marriage to my grandfather Caius Britannicus. I knew of Quintus Varo from my readings. He had been a simple, straightforward man of boundless honesty and integrity. From my great-aunt's report, his blood had been sadly diluted to produce this great- grandson, who now saw my eyes resting on him and smiled at me warmly. I allowed my own face to relax into a noncommittal smile and let my eyes continue to rove.