Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

"Uther was a king."

"Aye, but a small one. His kingship was small, I mean. There was nothing petty about Uther."

"So his son—"

"His son may be the man, some day. He has the blood of kings—not merely Uther's blood—and he has the breeding. He is Eirish Gael and Cambrian Celt and he is heir to Cornwall's Celts, through his mother. He has the blood of ancient Rome within him, too, patrician Cornelius through our own line, and equestrian Varrus. He could become High King."

"High King of Britain?" I heard amazement in my brother's voice.

"Why not?"

"Why not indeed." Now his tone changed to one of musing. "Vortigern sees himself as High King of Britain some day "

"Does he, by God? By what right?"

His lip flicked upward in a tiny smile. "By default, I suspect, and by right of conquest and possession. What other right is there?"

I had no adequate response to that and so sat quiet for some time, sipping my wine again while my mind raced to follow this new line of thought Ambrose had opened up. If Vortigern's ambitions leaned towards a High King's stature, I reasoned, then we in Camulod might well be able to make use of them to our own, similar ends.

A solid, heavy clunk, accompanied by a flash of movement brought me back from my musings. A small, tanned leather purse, bulky and evidently filled with coins, had landed on the table in front of me.

"What's this?"

"My current wealth, all of it, to purchase access to your gravid thoughts."

I smiled. "We don't use money here."

"I know, no more do we. I keep it as a talisman, a memento of a time long gone. You were thinking of Vortigern, I believe."

"Aye, I was. He will never be High King of Britain."

"Why not? He's already well along the path towards it. He controls the whole of the northeast and works with Hengist to extend his influence southward, into the Settlements."

"That will take him years."

"I agree, but he has years. He's not an old man, Cay. Five, perhaps six years older than you, that's all."

"Very well, he has years. But after those have passed he'll be no more than king of East Britain. Does he have sons?"

"Aye, two. Cuthbert and Areltane."

"Cuthbert? Areltane? What kind of names are those?"

Ambrose shrugged. "Different names; men's names. Saxon names."

"Are they impressive, these sons?"

Again the shrug, this time more pensive. "Who can tell? They are both young, but both king's sons. They have . . . concerns which other men lack . . . I believe, however, that the younger, Areltane, could be his father's heir in more than name. He is a strong young man in every way, approaching his seventeenth year."

"What about the other one, Cuthbert is it? How old is he?"

"Nearing nineteen. He is . . . less of a presence than the younger boy. Not less manly, you understand, merely less gifted; less likable, perhaps; certainly less open, less outgoing. I like him well enough, personally, but he is overshadowed by his younger brother in almost everything they do."

"Does he resent that?"

"Again, who can tell what goes on inside another man's mind? He doesn't seem to. The boys get along well together, outwardly at least."

"The other, Areltane; can he fight?"

"Aye, superbly for his age. He's a natural leader."

"Hmm. You admire Vortigern, don't you?"

"Yes, I do, and he has earned that. You admired him, too, when you met him."

"Yes, I admit I did. But High King, eh? Well, perhaps in the Eastern regions, as I said, but never in the West; not in Cambria, or Cornwall, and certainly not in Camulod, even though, as you pointed out, he still has years ahead of him. How many years, would you think, to claim and settle all of Britain to the east?"

Ambrose's face broke into a wide grin as he at last discerned the direction of my thoughts. "Long enough for a boy child to grow up. That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"

"Yes." I squeezed my chin between my palms and nodded my head slowly. "It had occurred to me that Vortigern victorious in the East would keep the pressures of invasion from that direction away from us, leaving us to guard against the South and the West alone."

Ambrose stood up, unable to contain his excitement as the picture in his mind took shape. "Of course! And the boy Arthur is the natural heir—legitimately—to South and West and North!"

"Aye," I added. "Even to Eire, which could reduce the threat from beyond the western seas."

He sat down again as suddenly as he had risen, staring at me.

"You dream wide-reaching dreams, Caius Merlyn."

"Perhaps, but I am bred to it and my dreams are not of my own greatness. We have a land to safeguard here—" I broke off as another thought occurred to me, then voiced it as a question. "Will those dreams cause you problems with your friend Vortigern?"

My question surprised him but he quickly shook his head. "No, not at all. I have already chosen, as you know, to make my life here. I will return to Vortigern and tell him that—another decision long since made. But now I can approach him as a military ally, offering him a guard upon his western flanks; our cavalry. He will be well pleased with that."

"You have no fears that he might seek, some far-off day and then merely to assist his loyal friends, to extend his domain to Camulod and the West?"

"He might," he admitted, after having thought about it for a time. "But by then he'll be too late. I know he has too much ahead of him now even to give thought to the possibility were he aware of it. By the time he does come around to it, if he ever does, his loyal friends will be too strong, too well established in their hilly lands behind their walls of horsemen, for him to consider waging war with them. In the meantime, Vortigern will pacify and unite the East, and Camulod will have those years to grow and prosper, unless something goes radically wrong."

"Aye, and something always will, but at least we have an end in sight— a target to aim for." Now it was I who stood up. "Come on, then. The first step along this path is not a step at all; I want to fork your legs across a saddle and get your feet securely into stirrups, and I want to be aboard a ship to fetch the child before the next moon fills its face."

Within the month, as I had ordained, Donuil and I were ready to set out for Eire. Ambrose was well ensconced and already ranging far and wide throughout the Colony, his feet securely anchored in his stirrups.

Donuil and I would travel light, with only nine men as escort. We would have preferred to ride alone, only the two of us, from my home to his, but everyone around us, from Aunt Luceiia to our visiting Druid friend Daffyd, had warned us of the folly of such a course. The dangers we would face lay on the road, they said, not at the end of our route, and of course they were right. A party of eleven would be small enough to make good speed, and large enough to discourage attack along the way. We picked our people carefully, for their size and fighting skills, and I was content. All nine of them were friends and companions of long standing.

Two days before we were due to leave, awaiting only Ambrose's return from his latest patrol, Lucanus came to visit me while I was in the midst of a meeting with my people, making a final inventory of our travelling needs. I was glad to see him; it had been some time since last we had talked. I apologized for being occupied and asked him if I might seek him out in turn within the hour. In far less time than that I found him in his Infirmary, in consultation with Ludmilla. He grinned at me and waved me to a high- backed chair by his table. "Sorry, my friend, my turn to be engaged, but we are almost done here. Sit, please."

I seated myself and spent the next few moments watching, and trying not to watch, Ludmilla as she leaned over the table beside Luke. She was a well-made woman, long and lithe beneath the voluminous white robe she wore. Black and white, I realized, were the colours I associated with her at all times. And blue, although she wore it too infrequently. Black hair, blue eyes, white clothing. And red, red lips, a sudden voice whispered within my ear. I felt my face flush and berated myself for such callow, boyish embarrassment, shifting around in my seat to look elsewhere. The woman flustered me and I could not understand why this should be so. I felt attracted to her, I knew that—the swell of her hips and breasts seldom eluded me for long, despite her loose-hanging clothes—but that was merely lust, and I knew I could cope with that and conquer it. The other confusion that I felt defied definition, but I was aware of it again—an anxiety amounting almost to panic.