Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

He blinked, hiding his surprise almost completely, and then he smiled. "I didn't think you knew."

"Come on, Luke! I'd have to be blind and a fool not to be aware of what happened the first time they saw each other. I was there, if you recall."

"Oh I recall, very well. I simply was not sure that you had seen it. . . or recognised it might be more accurate. I must say you seem to have taken it in stride." He was still smiling, a gentle, wistful little smile.

"I took it in gratitude, my friend, with profound, almost abject relief. The moment I saw what my eyes beheld between the two of them, I recognised the nature of my own discomfort over the young woman. My attraction was lust, pure and simple, alloyed with a modicum of fear and doomed by feelings of guilt."

"Hmm." He busied himself with his reins, giving himself time to think, and I used the interval to glance around us, noting our line of march and scanning the terrain on both sides of the road for signs of our unwanted escort. The countryside through which we were passing offered open, natural stretches of rolling meadow with scattered copses of tall trees. High up on our left I saw a solitary stag, his magnificent antlers sweeping along his back as he stood motionless, gazing down at us, and I stifled the immediate urge to go after him, taking comfort instead from the implicit assurance that no other humans ranged the woods between him and us. I turned to look at the other side of the road, but nothing moved there, either, that I could see. In front of me, Donuil and Rufio rode with two others, all four of them alert and watchful, their heads moving constantly. I checked over my shoulder and saw the two boys riding placidly behind us with the extra horses, and behind them our other five outriders.

"I understand the lust and, to a lesser extent, the guilt, which I believe is nonsense, but the reason for fear eludes me."

I had almost forgotten that Luke had been absorbing my last comment. Now I looked at him, grinning ruefully. "Age, Luke," I said. "I'm growing old."

"Horse turds! You're what? Thirty-two?"

"Almost. I was barely twenty-nine when we rode off to meet Germanus at Verulamium. That was three years and more ago, and I lost more than two of those years."

"Good God! It doesn't seem that long ago. Anyway, your fear of growing old is ludicrous."

"Was ludicrous," I corrected him. "It no longer applies."

"How so?"

"I mean that my fear, if fear it was, came from the threat I perceived at the time of being unable to attract a woman, because of my age. It was irrational, I can see that clearly now, but not before the scales fell from my eyes. And with that realisation came the thought that I must speak with you more carefully, and at much greater length, about the celibacy you espouse.

Since then, there hasn't been enough time to mention it to you. Now there is."

"I see. And why is it so urgent, suddenly, that you and I should speak of celibacy?"

"Because I'm curious. I want to learn more about it."

"In what sense? There's nothing obscure or arcane about it . . . all you have to do is remain sexually continent. Sexual continence constitutes celibacy. It's quite straightforward."

I felt myself bridling at his tone, reacting to the faint hostility I sensed, and I had to make an effort to keep my own voice dispassionate. "I know that, Luke," I responded, willing my face to form a rueful little smile. "But when we talked of it last time, you spoke about it as a tool to self-mastery."

"I had been drinking far too much on that occasion, as had you."

"I know that, too, but I also know the old saw about truth emerging from wine. You meant what you were saying that night and it fascinated me."

"After you had decided you could not have Ludmilla . . ."

"No! . . . well, yes, I suppose that's true . . . but there was more to it than that, Luke. You planted a seed in my mind that night, and I've been aware of it ever since. The episode with Ludmilla, a one-sided thing, I know, was . . ." I searched my mind for the correct word and settled upon a compromise. "It was a sign, I suppose, of something that has been bothering me, a feeling of . . . I think dissatisfaction's the closest I could come to describing it." I could hear my own frustration.

" 'Symptom' is the word you were looking for. Your feelings for Ludmilla were a symptom of an ailment." His face flickered in a grin and his voice became softer. "What kind of ailment is this, Merlyn? A fear of becoming impotent? That happens to all men, I'm told, with time."

"No, it's not that, Luke, that doesn't bother me at all, one way or the other, although I'm potent enough . . . My body's fit enough, and the urge is still there often enough to keep me aware of it. No, it's not that at all. It's my mind, my feelings, my sense of who I am that's troubling me."

"Hmm." He looked away from me, back to his plodding horses. "That sounds troublesome enough. Don't you know who you are, Caius Merlyn Britannicus?"

I had to laugh. "Yes, my friend, I know who I am, as well as you do, and I can see that I am not explaining myself very well, so let me try again. Bear with me for a moment."

I gathered my thoughts and tried to focus them. Finally I began again. "I still might not get this right," I said, "but it's important to me. Ludmilla, as you acknowledge, was a symptom of something. My difficulty is defining what that 'something' entails, but I know it has to do with my memories of Cassandra and the feelings I still have for her in spite of the fact that she has been dead for years. I lost the main part of those years, so to me, the loss of her is still something new and painful. Does that make sense?"

He nodded, not looking at me. "Completely."

"Good, I'm glad to hear you say that. But don't you see wherein lie my feelings of guilt?"

His concurrence emerged more slowly this time. "I do, from your perspective."

"Thank you, but since there is no one else who can influence what and how I feel inside, there can be no other relevant perspective, can there?" He did not even attempt to respond to that, so I continued. "So Cassandra—I can never really think of her as Deirdre—and my memories of her, fresh as they are, are a dominant force in how I think and behave . . . Tell me when you think I start to make no sense . . . My body has been without her for years, longer than might normally be required to forget her, I suspect, but my mind is struggling as though with a recent bereavement. And the conclusion I have reached is that I wish to remain faithful to the memory I hold of her. In my lusting for Ludmilla, I was aware of a betrayal of Cassandra." I hurried on, before he could be tempted to interrupt me. "I know , at least, a part of me knows, that is nonsensical, Luke, but it's true, nevertheless. And the fact remains that, as I am today, and with the way I feel inside, I have no desire, not the slightest, to come to know another woman. My body does, from time to time, but that is ephemeral and purely physical, and therein lies the reason for my interest, not in mere celibacy, but in the manner— the confident and assured manner—in which you spoke of celibacy as a powerful means to a particular end. You said it was an aid to concentration, to knowledge, to self-mastery and self-awareness, and to power over one's baser instincts. You were describing a power, Luke; a permanent and enduring power over one's self, leading inevitably to betterment and fulfillment. That intrigued me at the time, and since then, after long hours of thought, it has become more and more alluring. This is a knowledge I want to possess." I paused, then finished almost in a whisper. "But I suspect it's not to be achieved by simple abstinence."

He cleared his throat explosively and spat, something I had rarely seen him do, following the result over the wheel of the wagon with his eyes. Then he sighed deeply. I waited, feeling no impatience, knowing he was concentrating.