Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

"What will you do now?"

I looked at him. "What do you mean, what will I do now? I'll do what any sane man should do. I'll sleep. What else should I do?"

"Have you had any thought of speaking to my father about Deirdre?" I looked quickly over my shoulder. "Don't be concerned, no one else heard me. But don't you think you should say something soon? She was his daughter."

"Aye, and your sister." I was still looking around me, uneasy at the thought of being overheard, but no one appeared to be paying any attention to us. Connor had moved ahead to walk beside his father and everyone else who had been at the head table had stopped along the way to talk to others. Now I looked back at Donuil. "I am aware of my responsibilities in this, Donuil. But it's a story that will be long in the telling, so I had decided to wait until tomorrow, when your father would be rested and there would be less pressure surrounding all of us."

He nodded, but any agreement he might have offered was forestalled by his father, who had stopped to wait for us to draw level with him at the exit from the Hall.

"Master Merlyn, the night is not yet too old, and I would like to speak with you in less . . . public circumstances. Will you come to my quarters?"

"Of course, sir, with pleasure."

"Good." He glanced at Donuil, then towards Connor. "We will be three, then, with your—what was the word—your adjutant ? Will you object if Connor here makes four of us?"

"Not in the least."

"Then please, come with us."

XIII

It took us only moments to cross the space between the Hall and what I took to be the king's own hut—it could hardly have been called a house, even though it was the most commodious building I lad yet seen in the enclosure apart from the Great Hall itself—and once inside, I was immediately struck by the shadowy darkness of the place and forcibly reminded of the gift of candles we had carried all the way from Camulod. I turned to Donuil at once, but he was smiling already. "I'll bring them," he said, and left at once. His father watched Donuil leave, raising only one eyebrow to indicate his curiosity before waving me to one of the four backless Roman-style chairs that were grouped around an open hearth pit in the middle of the floor.

"There is no ceremony in this place," Athol said. "Here, we serve ourselves." He moved away and began to pour ale from a large, earthen pitcher into four mugs of kiln-fired clay. Connor moved to assist him and I looked around me in curiosity. This was a one-room dwelling, with only a single, fur-covered cot against a side wall. The wall with the doorway was blank and undecorated, with two small window embrasures covered on the outside by wooden shutters. The remaining three walls were hung with a strange variety of skins, none of which seemed to be decorative, and with a variety of swords, shields and other weaponry, including a pair of large, unmatched axes and a smaller, lethal-looking hatchet with a heavy head and a widely flared cutting edge. It was, I decided, a distinctively unregal dwelling. When Athol spoke again, the humour in his tone embarrassed me greatly, for my amazement had evidently registered upon my features.

"I do not live here, Master Merlyn. I merely sleep here from time to time. My living quarters are behind the Hall, where we dined tonight, but there are times when I find it convenient to escape, and my people are considerate enough to leave me to my own devices when I come here."

"Forgive me—" He cut short my apologies with a laugh and a wave of his hand.

"For what? For looking about you? That is natural, and you are a stranger here. Now, where did Donuil disappear to?" He stepped towards me, holding out a drinking mug for me to take, and then seated himself beside me, leaning comfortably into the side arm of his chair with the ease of long usage.

"He has gone to fetch a gift we brought for you," I told him, sniffing the aroma of the cool ale before tasting it. "We had both forgotten about it in the excitement of arrival."

"Another gift? Those you have given me already are magnificent enough to beggar any I have ever received. And the return of my son himself is gift enough to gladden all of us." The delight in the king's voice was unmistakable. Connor was grinning as he, too, came to sit close by the fire, which was leaping brightly in its pit. "Well, by all the gods," the old man continued, "we'll drink to your new gift now, Master Merlyn, before it comes, since it is not possible that it could disappoint us."

He sipped his ale tentatively and waited for me to try mine. It was cold and delicious, and I nodded in appreciation. Seeing my approval, Athol nodded, too, and took a longer drink before setting his mug down and fixing me with a straightforward gaze. "You have done well by my son, Merlyn Britannicus, and I am grateful. He speaks very highly of you, and in the short time since we two have met, I can perceive why that should be so." His face broke into a smile again. "And he is fiercely proud of the fact that he is now a horseman . . . what is the word you use, a cav—?" He stumbled over the alien sound.

"A cavalryman, sir. Organized, disciplined horse troops are called cavalry."

"Cavalryman, aye, that's the word. He's fearsome proud of that." He had fallen out of the courtly language of his formal bearing and spoke now in the liquid, rolling Erse of the common folk.

"And so he should be. You have no cavalry here in Eire at all?"

"We have no horses. Och, we have ponies, wild creatures and strong enough to carry a man, but small they are, scarcely bigger than asses. They look little like those massy creatures you have. There's nothing in all Eire to compare with those beasts of yours for size."

I smiled. "Except your giant deer. There's nothing in Britain to compare with those."

"The elk? But they're not Eirish! They came from beyond the seas, in the old days, brought by an Outland king. You don't have their like in Britain? I thought you must have. Anyway, they liked it here, I suppose, for now there are hundreds of them. But they're stupid things. There's no sport in hunting them, although they carry much meat. They are too big and slow. The most difficult part of the hunt is finding them, because they live in the deepest woods, among the swamps. Give me a small deer any day. Hunting one of those is a challenge." He paused, then: "But I was talking of your horses. Would you . . . ?" He broke off and cleared his throat before continuing. "My people are fascinated by your horses, and by this whole idea of cavalry. Tomorrow promises to be a fine day. Would you consider showing us what your cavalry can do that makes them such a powerful force?"

"You mean an exhibition? A cavalry demonstration? But there are only eight of us, nine counting Donuil. One of my men was killed on the way here, and another broke his leg."

"Nine cavalry may be an awesome force to people who have none."

My eyes went from him to Connor who was watching me closely, and I realized that I was being tested in some way I could not define. "Of course," I said. "There won't be much I can show you, but there are enough of us to give you some idea of what's involved in our manoeuvres. Where could we arrange such a thing?"

It was Connor who answered me. "That's easy. Right outside our main gates there's a clear space of common grazing. You crossed it this morning on your way in. It's bounded by the river on one side and by the forest on the other two. We could do it there."

" Then we shall. At what hour?" I had noticed the place, but had been too preoccupied with our imminent reception and the appearance of Athol's stronghold to pay much attention.

Now Connor looked at his father. "What do you think, Father? Early or late?"

The king hawked and spat into the fire. "The place will be full of thick heads in the morning. Better wait until they've had to eat and drink again and recaptured their senses. Some time after midday." He glanced at me. "Would that suit you? After midday?"