Jack Whyte - The Eagles' Brood

I felt a flush of anger. "Some day, if I ever meet him, I shall be sure to take issue with him on that."

XVIII

Uther rode into Camulod in style, in spite of the fact that the column of riders behind him numbered less than four hundred of the original five hundred men he had led into Cornwall, and in spite of the fact that more than a few of those bore evidence of wounds. As we watched him approach, it occurred to me that he and his party looked extremely fresh for a returning raiding party, and I wondered if he had taken the time to clean himself and his men up before approaching Camulod. The thought was malicious, almost vindictive, and it shamed me. I glanced sideways to where my father stood less than three paces away with Titus by his side, and as I did so, I heard him remark, "Now there, Titus, rides a commander who has an eye for morale—not only among his men, but in the Garrison. He must have had his men stop and police themselves so as to make the best impression on the watchers here. Good thinking, that, good for discipline!"

My father's comment made me feel petty, but it also made me aware of the reason for my pettiness—my own uncertainties on how to deal with Uther and the problems he presented me. I knew I was not prepared to act as though nothing were wrong between us, even though Uther himself might be totally unaware of anything. It had been several months since the attack on Cassandra, and we had not spoken to each other in all that time.

I knew that Uther would be happy to see me, and my stomach roiled at the hypocrisy of embracing him with all of my doubts unsettled in my mind. I could not face him, I decided, and turned to leave, but as I did so I was confronted by young Donuil on my left, watching the approaching column, and I also became acutely aware of everyone else who was standing nearby. If I were to leave like this, abruptly and without reason, they would all wonder why, with the possible exception of my father, who harboured his own doubts, yet was prepared to extend the benefit of those doubts to Uther. I bit down hard and stayed where I was, watching the approach of Uther's cavalcade.

A pair of standard-bearers flanked him, right and left, each bearing a massive banner, one of which depicted the red dragon of his family, the Pendragon, and the other the great golden dragon that was Uther's new personal standard. Riding abreast behind these three came Uther's four senior squadron commanders, followed in their turn by a glittering troop of Uther's own squadron, his Dragons, as he called them. Directly behind these, at a distance of about fifteen paces, rode a quartet of strangers whom I identified as Cornish by the differences in their clothing, and behind them came the remainder of Uther's troop in a column eight ranks wide.

My attention was fastened immediately on the strangers, my first thought being that they were prisoners. I dismissed that thought immediately, however, because of the confidence in their bearing and the condition of their dress, which was too fine to indicate any privation or struggle. Then I saw that they were in fact riding in pairs, masters and servitors, for the front pair rode unencumbered while the horses and the bodies of their followers were laden with baggage. They had to be high-ranking hostages, I decided, or else ambassadors of some kind from Lot himself, although why a victorious leader should return with ambassadors from a defeated enemy, and a treacherous one at that, was beyond me. Defeated armies did not dictate terms or sue for special conditions or treaties of peace; they submitted, and that was that.

"An embassage of some description, obviously," my father murmured beside me, "although the reasoning behind it baffles me. Why should Lot think we would be interested in talking to his minions? If I were in his shoes, I'd be afraid my servants might be executed out of hand as retribution for my perfidy!"

"You are not Lot, Father. From what I know of him, he would not lose a moment's sleep over such an outcome. He's buying something by this move. Perhaps time. Anyway, we'll soon find out."

The cheers of the onlookers were deafening now as Uther's troops approached the gates, and we withdrew to the reviewing rostrum to allow them room to assemble in the courtyard. Eventually, they were all ranged before us and silence fell at a blast from the trumpets.

Uther drew himself erect and saluted my father formally. "General, Hail! I have the honour to report the successful completion of this expedition. We bring reports of victory' against the enemies of the Colony, and we bring also ambassadors"—there was the merest trace of irony in Uther's tone—"from Lot of Cornwall, whose representations will be made to you and to our Council at the time of your choosing. In the meantime, I have only to report that an additional thirty men are left behind us at the borders of our lands, receiving medical aid from our physician there and awaiting wheeled transport back to Camulod."

My father nodded formally on hearing this and ran his eye appreciatively over the newly returned men, ignoring the "ambassadors" completely for the time being, until he could form a clearer idea of their purposes.

"Soldiers of Camulod!" His voice was not raised particularly high, but it carried clearly across the courtyard. "Welcome to your home. You have done well. Each of you will have forty-eight hours relieved of duty."

Uther saluted again on behalf of his men. "Our thanks, General. Permission to dismiss?"

"Granted."

Uther signalled to his senior centurion, and the ranks wheeled and filed out of the courtyard, heading for the stables, leaving only Uther and Lot's "ambassadors" still before us. The onlookers, for the most part family and friends of the returned troops, left with them, following them to the stables to await their men's release. Uther flicked a glance sideways at his ambassadors and swung himself out of his saddle to the ground, crossing towards me with his arms flung wide, his great grin threatening to split his face in two.

"Cay, you whoreson! We haven't been drunk together in years, it seems to me!" His arms closed around me in a bone-crushing hug and I could not help but respond in kind to his warmth and obvious pleasure in seeing me. He stank of sweat, his own and his horse's, even though he was clean shaved and recently washed. I hugged him back, relieved to discover that my own pleasure was utterly genuine.

"You stink!" I said. "Even worse than I remember. Welcome home. We were beginning to think, from your silence, that you had met your inevitable end at the hands of some jealous husband or lover. But I'd forgotten how, smelling like that, it would be impossible for you to get near a woman."

"You ought to know better than to worry about me, Cay. I'm too fast to catch, too dangerous to fight, and too good for any woman to complain of me to any lover! I am unkillable! Uncle Picus!" He released me and threw his arms around my father* and I could detect no reservation in the affection with which my father greeted him. I looked around me for young Donuil, but he was nowhere to be seen, so I gave my attention to the four strangers, who remained mounted and looked around dispassionately at their first view of the interior of Camulod. Two of them were servitors, as I had thought. The other two were clearly of high station. All four rode bareback. I sized up the two spokesmen, neither of whom seemed aware of my scrutiny.

Both of them were of a kind, black-haired and swarthy- skinned, and their clothing had much in common with the dress of other Celtic peoples I knew, although those men of Cornwall claimed lineage from the tribe that Caesar's men had called the Ordoviceii. They seemed to be of a height, too, except that the one closer to me seemed somehow disproportionate. This puzzled me for a moment and I looked for an explanation, and found one. Their horses were of different sizes. The closer man rode a far smaller horse than his companion, and yet his head was on a level with the other's. I realized that he had an inordinately long spine, and saw that his legs were short and squat. His face was long and bony, and his eyes were deep set and far too close together for the width of his face. His mouth was hidden from my eyes by a long, drooping moustache. He was narrow of shoulder and his long, oiled hair curled down between his shoulder-blades. I took an instant dislike to him and turned my attention to his companion.