Jack Whyte: The Eagles' Brood

I dove under the roots of a great, lightning-split tree and crouched there in terror, hearing the thundering of my own heart over the approaching noise of my pursuer. And then he stopped moving and I knew that he was listening for me, searching the woods around him carefully with his eyes and ears, but I did not know how close he was. The silence grew and lengthened until I could stand it no longer and I eased myself upright and cautiously raised my head. He was nowhere in sight. Then, being only eight, I did a very foolish thing. I climbed higher in order to see further, believing him gone, and there he was, looking at me from less than thirty pages away, across the top of the last thicket I had dived through. He saw me as I saw him and he plunged into the bushes towards me as I launched myself away from him, running with wings on my heels after the few moments' rest I had gained. I ran and ran, choosing the densest thickets again, unmindful of the stinging slash of brambles and nettles and springy twigs, until suddenly I broke from a screen of bushes to find myself in an open, grassy glade of huge old oak trees, their branches choked with mistletoe, the sacred berries of the Druids. I could hear him crashing too close behind me, and in panic, gathering the last of my strength, I threw myself at the biggest oak and scrambled up high into its branches, seeking to hide among the tangled mistletoe. Up and up I went until I could climb no higher, and there I crouched, hugging a branch, and watched him enter the glade.

He stopped on the edge of the clearing, out on the open grass, and looked all around him, peering and listening. Then he began to walk towards the tree in which I was hiding. I was almost sick with dread and terrified that I would lose my hold and tumble from my perch to land at his feet, and in my fear I hiccoughed. He heard me. Dumb with terror, I watched his head come up as he searched the tree until his eyes found me. I can still remember the expression on his face as he smiled an awful smile and beckoned to me to come down, talking to me in his heathen tongue, although we both knew, he and I, that he was going to have to come up and get me.

He had to try three times to get his first purchase on a low branch, but after that he began to climb surely, and more and more quickly, towards my perch. I was saying all my small boy's prayers as he came, willing him to trust a too weak branch and fall, to be too big to come higher— anything to stop him coming closer.

And then I heard the thump of heavy hooves and I saw him freeze and look down. I could see nothing, for the bole of the tree was between me and the sounds, but the Saxon forgot me immediately and began to drop, hand over hand, almost falling from branch to branch in his haste to regain the ground, and then he jumped and landed sprawling, rolling forward and over like a cat and coming to his feet on the run, dagger in hand. The clump of hooves was below me now and suddenly there was a man on a huge, running red horse that bowled the Saxon over by striking him with its shoulder. Before his sprawling form could even come to rest, the rider pinned him to the ground with a spear between his shoulders, and the Saxon squirmed and kicked for long moments before he finally was still. The horseman left his spear sticking up into the air and turned to look up at me, twisting his body sideways so that he could see up to where I was.

"What are you? A Druid god?"

I said nothing, swallowing hard, trying to control my terror.

"Can you get down from there by yourself?"

I tried to say yes, but nothing came out.

"Well? Come on down. He's dead. You're safe enough, now. I have no cause to hurt you."

Still I did not move. My rescuer dismounted and pulled his spear free from the body of the man he had killed, bracing his foot on the corpse to give him purchase. This done, he wiped the blade clean on the dead man's tunic and then stepped back to his horse, stroking its muzzle and talking softly to it, although loudly enough for me to overhear what he was saying.

"Now, Horse," he said, "there is a boy, a boy with no clothes on, hiding up in the tree above your head. I'm telling you this so that you won't be frightened when he comes down, for he looks ferocious. I promise you that he won't hurt you, Horse, if you don't hurt him." He stopped and looked back up at me again. "Are you coming down, boy? You're keeping me from my meal. I've been riding all night long and have not broken fast today, and there's a tasty rabbit stew simmering on my fire, not half a mile from here. Now you may not be hungry, but I am starved, so it will please me greatly if you will come down and let me get back to my food."

Slowly, feeling my way with care, I climbed down from my refuge, suddenly feeling all the cuts and scrapes that I had gathered in my flight, and all at once aware of the abrasive bark of the great oak that had sheltered me. As I reached the last branch above the ground, my rescuer leaped nimbly up onto his horse's back and ambled over to me. I was perched now about three feet above him. He smiled at me and I knew I was really safe.

"What was all that about? Who was this fellow?" He indicated the dead man.

"A Saxon. A raider. They caught us away from our camp, swimming. He chased me and I ran."

"He must have chased you a long way. Why did he do that? I would have let you go."

"He found my tore."

"He what?"

"He found my tore. My gold collar. He knew I am the son of a chief, and he meant to kill me."

"So, you're the son of a chief, are you? Not just a chieftain, eh? A full chief! I'm impressed. What do you call yourself? And how does a Celtic chief's son come to speak Latin so well?"

I drew myself erect and spoke with all the dignity I could muster, determined, naked and bruised as I was, to impress this stranger. "I am of Roman blood. My name is Caius. Caius Merlinus Britannicus. My father is a Legate of Rome. He rides with Stilicho."

The effect of my pronouncement upon him was salutary. He choked. As he spluttered and coughed, his horse pranced nervously, skittering around so that I lost sight of the rider's face, but eventually he regained control both of himself and of his horse and came to a stop, facing me again, his eyes wide and red with coughing.

"Pardon me," he said. "I swallowed some spit the wrong way. So, your father is a Legate? Well, he ought to be, to have burdened you with a name like that. Merlinus? That's not a Roman name. At least, I've never heard of it before."

"No," I admitted. "You are right, it's not. It's really Merlyn. That's Celtic."

"I see." He shook his head, now wearing a grin of open disbelief that even I could decipher, and held up his right hand to me. "Here, take my hand and swing yourself down here in front of me. A man with a name like that should ride in front." I did as he bade me and he held me in place with his left arm. "Can you ride, boy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, then hold my spear and hang on to the horse's mane. We'll be at my camp very quickly."

He did not lie. I barely had time to tell him about Uther and our flight from the well before I smelled wood-smoke, and we broke from the trees again to find a well-ordered camp where five other men lay resting. They all looked at us curiously as we rode up to the fire.

"General," my rescuer said, "I think this young man should meet you. He tells me his name is Caius Merlyn Britannicus." He lowered me gently to the ground in front of the fire where a giant of a man in black leather armour stood up to tower over me, a strange expression on his face.

"Caius Merlyn Britannicus," said my rescuer, "this is the Legate Caius Picus Britannicus."

My father had come home.

III

How does a boy find out about his father? About the man himself, I mean? The fact is, he does not. At least, not the truth about the things the world holds to be important, for when a boy is still a boy, such things truly do not matter. I only discovered my father after I became a man myself, and much of what I have discovered since his death has been made available to me, as I have already said, simply because I am Merlyn. As a boy, I found my father to be a mystical, almost mythical presence on the periphery of my life. He was constantly at war throughout my childhood and my boyhood and I saw him only briefly and occasionally, on his infrequent visits home.