“He tried, but now he’s fallen in there too. It’s been raining, Lance. The mud’s hip deep, and everything really stinks.”
Lance examined the girl. She was staring up at him, face solemn as an owl’s. She ought to have been a priestess by now, but times had passed and changed. Her mother was only the baker’s wife, and she herself a skinny farm girl, frail and at a loss. Once upon an enchanted moor, Lance had no doubt, Elena and her women would have gathered round the midden pit and sung the damn pig out, and Farmer Alun too. “Oh, good,” he said. “I’m so glad you came to get me. Have Edern and Bryn fetch ropes and planks, and I’ll meet you there.”
He ran down the outside steps into the yard. It was like swimming through a tide of memories. Here Arthur had half-carried him, broken leg and all, away from the clatter of incoming guests and up to the firelit bedchamber. By the bed, Art had hoisted him up into his arms with a grunting effort: stood laughing at his outrage, and then laid him tenderly down.
He set out for the midden pit. One day these flashes of perfect, vivid recall would cease to plague him. On his way across the courtyard, he paused once, as he always did, by Father Tomas’s grave. The old man had taken a fever in the depths of winter and died. Lance had caused his resting place by the chapel to be marked with as fine a stone cross as his village mason could carve. For himself, Lance had never seen the light of the new god, but it wasn’t what he thought that mattered. Tomas had never forgiven him after Art’s first letter, or consented to teach him another word of Latin, but after his fashion, the old man had tried to help hold the fort, and by then Lance had learned enough to teach himself. Now—more keenly and crucially than ever—he was alone.
***
My dearest Lance, we are at Din Guardi. Do you remember the story you told me, the tale of the dragon who came from the stars and lay down to sleep in the earth? You showed me the scales of her great spine, on the moors above Vindolanda. That spine stretches right across the country, and ends here on the east coast in a splendid outcrop. The name of the place means the hill of the fortress, but the people call it Dragon’s Head. So you and I are connected. The countryside is dangerous, filled with strange tales of monsters, but that would not deter my bold Lance.
Is it not strange that Arthur Pendragon should come to Dragon’s Head? The fortress is not mine, however—not yet. I have come in peace, as an ally to one of the kings of the Old North. He is besieged by Anglian invaders. The times and the affairs of men are exciting. Three years have passed now, and I’m sure your mother taught you the magical power of threes. You have a place here. I say this in every message I send you, and I always will: come to me.
***
To the son of King Ban of Vindolanda—
Lance, I pray this missive finds you. My brother has sustained a wound in battle and lies desperately ill. The journey is a week’s ride. The horseman who brought you this will return with you. I beg you to come.
Gaius, son of Ector, Din Guardi.
Chapter Two
A year to the day since Tomas had died. Nights growing longer, the longest of all on its way. Slaughtered beasts salted away, precious grain stored in the barns. Vindolanda like a beacon fire, calling out to raiders all around: here am I, full of wealth, defended only by my prince and the handful of farmers he’s trained to lift swords as well as ploughshares. Here am I, such rich pickings, women and children and beasts, protected by such a frail shield. You took me before: here am I.
No man could leave such a place. Lance had grown up with these people, known them and loved them for as long as he’d understood what love was. To leave would be to throw them to the wolves. The thing was impossible: could not be done.
And yet here is Lance in Balana’s lamplit stable, settling her saddle blanket with tender care. You lift it onto the withers first, then draw it back towards the tail, so that the hairs don’t get rubbed the wrong way and irritate her hide. Then you place your prized Roman saddle, supple from years of polishing, on her strong spine. You fasten the girth, wait until she’s tried her trick of bloating herself out—lazy old girl, unwilling to leave her quarters on such a night!—and deflated again, and then you tighten the strap. You check her bridle and her bit.
Lance laid his brow to her neck. Dana was sobbing in the corner. She was the only one who’d dared come in. The open half door of the stable was filled with pale faces, watching in silence. One of them belonged to Guy’s messenger, who’d clearly been coached to treat Lance with respect. “Forgive me, sire. The night is deep, the road dangerous. Don’t you think we should wait until—”
Lance jerked his head up, making Balana snort and sidle. “If I delay by so much as an hour,” he said roughly, “and by such delay cause Arthur an hour’s needless loneliness or pain, may my soul be forfeit.” He fixed a scorching look on the messenger. “Yours, too. Edern! Where is Edern?”
The old housekeeper fought his way to the front of the crowd at the door. “I’m here, Lance.”
“Fetch my father’s old sword and spear from the armoury. When I am gone, you are to take the sword Arthur gave me and sell it at Rivers Meet. The melt value alone will be considerable. Use the money to buy more winter grain if we need it, and to hire men to help with the planting in spring.”
“I will, Lance. But... you’ll be back by then, won’t you?”
Lance couldn’t answer. He led Balana out of the stables and leapt into the saddle like a drowning man finding a rock. If Arthur lived, the threads that bound their destinies together would tighten, would begin once again their intricate weave. And if Arthur died... “Sell the sword. If there’s money left, get some of the lads from the militia at Corstopitum to come up and see you through raiding season. May all the gods bless you, old friend. Goodbye.”
Lance and the messenger clattered out of the courtyard together. Lance didn’t allow himself to glance down at any of the faces, any of the reaching hands. There was just enough moon to travel by, a chilly first quarter hanging high above Hadrian’s old Wall. He turned Balana’s head eastward, touched his heels to her side, and he rode.
***
“That horse of yours—she used to belong to Sir Ector, didn’t she?”
Lance returned with an effort to his skin. He’d been sitting by Art’s bedside in a chamber in Din Guardi, and Art had just opened his eyes. This beat all hell out of the other fantasy, the one in which a white-faced, weeping Gaius showed him into a crypt. “She did,” he said tersely. “Although what business that is of yours, I can’t imagine.”
“You should be kinder to such a noble beast.”