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"You see this, lad?"
The boy had nodded, wordless and hurt.
"Well, my king, 'tisn't mine at all. It's yours." He placed the heavy torque around the boy's neck, where it flopped down his chest in a forlorn fashion.
"It doesn't fit very well," Gwalchmai said uncertainly.
"No, not yet. But it will, my king. Give it time and it will fit you very well, indeed. I'm only borrowing it until then. So that I can protect your mother and your brother and all the people of Gododdin until you're a man grown and well able to do that, yourself."
"Will you teach me?" the boy asked plaintively, fear in his eyes. "Better than Father?"
His throat closed. "Better than your father? How is that possible, lad?"
Gwalchmai wiped tears with one fist. "Father let the Picts kill him."
"Oh, no, lad, never think that," Ancelotis murmured, drawing the boy close. "Your father was a great warrior. Why, he and Artorius trained together as boys, taught by Ambrosius Aurelianus, himself. In war, lad, it isn't a matter of letting someone kill you, sometimes it just happens that the other side is a bit stronger that day. Sometimes, it's nothing more than bad luck. A man does his best, Gwalchmai, learns all that he can about his trade, and does his very best, and no one can ask any more than that of a man. I've never seen any warrior fight harder or more bravely than your father did, the day the Picts killed him. And even though they killed him, lad, we defeated them, because his battle plan was a good one. The Picts won't be crossing our borders again for a bit because of that."
Gwalchmai leaned against his shoulder for long moments, thinking about that, then finally said, "Uncle, I don't know how to make a battle plan."
He kissed the child's hair. "Not yet, Gwalchmai. But I will teach you. That's part of my sacred charge from the council of advisors, to teach you all the things your father would have done, had he lived long enough. It will be a great honor to teach you, my young king."
When the boy met his eyes again, some of the deep hurt had gone. "Like you taught me to saddle my pony and take him across the jumps and care for him after?"
"Exactly like."
His lower lip quivered for a moment, then he put his small hands around the torque and pulled it off. "It's too heavy, Uncle."
He had never heard a better summation of kingship in his life.
"When the day comes, Gwalchmai, you'll be strong enough to lift and carry it. This, I vow before God."
The child who would be king put the torque into his uncle's hands and he slipped it back around his own neck. "Thank you, Gwalchmai. I will wear it in your honor until you are ready to receive it back again, as a man fully grown."
The boy hugged him spontaneously. The slight little body was trembling. "Don't die, too!"
He kissed the boy's hair again. "That, my little king, is in God's hands. But I will take great care, this I promise."
When Ancelotis glanced up, he found Morgana watching with tears streaming down her face, holding her younger son in her arms and rocking him gently. "Gwalchmai," he said gently, "your mother needs you, lad."
The boy looked around, saw his mother's tears, and ran to her. "Don't cry, Mamma, I'll protect you!"
A strangled sound escaped her, then she was on her knees, clutching her older son close and weeping against his neck. Ancelotis left silently, allowing them the privacy their grief demanded. Now, seated in the arena, preparing to watch the ritual combat about to transpire, Gwalchmai all but glued himself to his mother's side, face a pale blur in the distance. The boy was doubtless terrified that he would lose an uncle, this day, right before his eyes.
And there wasn't a thing he could have done to disabuse the child of that notion, since he knew in his bones that was precisely what Cutha intended. He would have liked to have spared the child the sight of this combat, but he would do the boy no favors by sheltering him—nor would such a course serve Gododdin's best interests. It was brutal, the harsh reality that a king must learn from his very childhood, if he were to govern wisely. That ugly reality didn't stop Ancelotis from wishing, rather desperately, that little Gwalchmai didn't have to learn it quite so soon.
Ancelotis clenched his jaw even tighter when he realized Ganhumara sat on the boy's other side, offering neither comfort nor even acknowledgment of the child's presence. Artorius' wife blazed in a shimmer of copper hair and flame-colored woolen gown, a startling contrast beside Morgana's black mourning attire. Ganhumara seemed to flicker around the edges against the slate-colored sky, wildfire against the looming threat of thunder. Ancelotis wasn't proud of the thought, but couldn't help thinking it, either: Pray God that one never has children. She'd let them starve for affection among the dogs of her ke
Stirling, watching through Ancelotis' eyes, agreed darkly.
A burst of raucous laughter from behind brought Ancelotis and Stirling around in the saddle. Cutha and his personal guard contingent were making their way across a broad meadow beyond the racing arena, through a substantial herd of horses and ponies left to graze by visitors in from the countryside. Cutha's men were accompanied by a contingent of stone-faced soldiers wearing the colors and insignia of Rheged's cataphracti.
Whatever the Saxons had been up to, at least they'd done it under the scrutiny of Briton military might. Cutha gestured toward Emrys Myrddin and Ancelotis, then said something that drew howls of laughter from his companions. Most of Cutha's men swayed in the terminal stages of drunke
"Overconfident windbags," Ancelotis muttered, drawing a chuckle from Emrys Myrddin.
Stirling, however, had noted quite narrowly that Cutha neither swayed in his saddle nor appeared to be even the slightest bit drunk. Creoda, riding in his wake, had gone from looking like a scared rabbit to resembling a potted one, badly drunk and too terrified in his drunke
"Looks to me," Stirling muttered under his breath, "like he holds his liquor better than his pals do. Jolly wonderful."
A shout went up from the arena and signal trumpets blared as the footrace competitors, having made one more complete circuit of the track, shot past a finish line marked with white chalk. They slowed to a halt, many of them gasping deeply for breath. The wi
They don't realize they're not Romans any more, Stirling thought sadly. They've maintained the trappings, but Rome has long since gone from their lives.
Ancelotis' response surprised him. We never believed ourselves Romans, Stirling of Caer-Iudeu. But we are a civilized people, as civilized as Rome ever was. We teach our sons and daughters Latin and Greek and bring them up on Plato and Aristotle and Julius Caesar and Cicero. We pass on to our children, and their children in turn, the skilled trades which the Roman legions and colonists brought among us, adding to our own skills in metallurgy and healing and the arts and suchlike. And we are just as determined as Rome to preserve our way of life when barbarians threaten our borders. This is all that really matters, is it not? To safeguard the beliefs and learned arts which Britons share, from the Wall to the southern tip of Cerniw, no matter which tribe or kingdom is at immediate risk? Artorius lives for this purpose only: to protect Britons from marauding savages. It is a good purpose. It is enough.