None of them except me.

It always added up the same. Lords were not of themselves

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terribly important when you came down to it. If we vanished from the earth, the Morganas and Cunedags, this woman and her child would prosper, make new children, draw new food from the earth. Just keep the lords off their backs, they’ll do fine, thanks.

But take them away from us, and we have no purpose, mere violent children scuffling over a pointless game. And because it’s pointless we puff it out with self-importance, gild it with tinsel like honor, courtesy, pride of descent and blood. Our function is to keep the land clear for the vast majority who work it, to clear away the carnal debris like carrion birds. The Catuvellauni coming home to plant, that’s our reason and our only meaning. The rest is the rarefied delusion our vanity puts between us and the horror.

A Guenevere, a Trystan, an Arthur may be the flowers of the earth, but its fruit is a Morgana. Still, try telling that to the flower.

I hauled the woman erect. She cringed away from me, clutching the dirty child.

“My lords, this woman would kill you without a second thought and use you sensibly for manure. But then she’s closer to reality than you lot. Ambrosius knows this, that’s why he’s king. Learn it now and never forget.”

Faint cries of welcome filtered down the line of our tents, and under them the sound of a galloping horse. The yelling swelled louder as the horse hove into sight. The rider wore plain leather, but a Roman helmet crested with the imperial gold.

Hungry for news, for anything that smelled of elsewhere, a crowd of my men collected around the burly, aging man as he walked the horse down the row of tents to meet me: Ursus Strabo, aide to the emperor. He dismounted and gripped my hand.

“Hail, Count.”

“Ursus Strabo, greetings. How does the king?”

“That’s why I’ve come. Late, I admit.” He said it loud enough for all to hear. “Ambrosius is dead.”

Bedivere crossed himself. “God rest his soul then.”

There was a mutter of amens.

“Bless the old man,” I said. “He was so damned tired.”

From his dispatch case, Ursus handed me a wax tablet with the imperial seal. “This testament’s gone to every prince in Britain. Ambrosius names you as his choice for the crown.”

“By God, he’s earned it.” Bedivere clapped me on the shoulder. “Not a worthier lord in Britain, mad though he is.”

Ursus’s nose wrinkled at the unpleasant air. “What’s that stink?”

“The world,” said Trystan. “Just ignore it.”

“And the Council,” I pressed Ursus. “The princes, what of them?”

“They meet near Humber to choose a new king as soon as all can assemble.” Ursus lowered his voice. “Artorius, there’s a private message for you. May we speak alone?”

“Of course. Bedivere, it seems—” I looked around at the dung heap that had sickened us all for so many weeks. “Strike my flag. Let’s get out of here.”

In my tent, Ursus loosened his leather jerkin and gratefully accepted a mug of barley beer. “You all look like the tail end of piss-time,” was his blunt assessment. “Filthy business, wasn’t it?”

“All of that. What’s the message?”

He rooted in his pouch. “It’s bad in Eburacum since the old man went. We staff weren’t too popular, watched all the time. Cador held me there long after the funeral. Right, here it is.”

A small scrap of vellum sealed in plain wax, evidently written in haste. “She slipped it to me at the south gate.”

Arthur—

Father will bid for the crown. He’s put Agrivaine between you and Humber, alae and legion. Go round him and come home. I feel like a traitor, still God bless you. G.

“Bad news, Artorius? Not that any of it’s good.”

“Nor this. Ursus, what’s my situation?”

He drained his beer and belched. “Dangerous.”

“Who’s on my side?”

“All and none, boy. Every prince wants you to back his grab for the crown. And every one of them would be just as happy if you never reached Humber alive.”

“Cador for one. He’s even willing to bet on it, set Agrivaine to stop me.”

That didn’t surprise veteran Ursus. “Agrivaine’s grown pretty important up there. Good soldier, but …”

I wanted to know about Guenevere and Cador’s alliance with Brude. Ursus only snorted in contempt.

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“That was a joke from the beginning, you know that. That just kept Brude off his back. The offer and the princess have been withdrawn. Agrivaine’s looking in that direction now.“1

“To Guenevere?”

“Why not?” Ursus grinned. “Politics aside, she’s a piece for any man. She knows what she wants, too. Must have taken some fortitude to risk that letter.”

Guenevere never lacked courage, nor Cador when it came to that, though he was probably encouraging Agrivaine subtly in his suit because he still needed the earnest Orkneyman. He’d play both ends against the middle as long as possible. Well, if a battle came, my men were spoiling for it.

“Ursus, how many men do you command?”

“Are you serious? Me, and lucky to be here.”

“Will you stay for me? Will you be my man?”

“No, Artorius.” He rubbed his bristly gray beard. “I’m old and used up and I want to go home. There’s a house and a wife in Brittany. My pension land, the oniy decent thing I ever got out of this rutting army. Damn it, I only stayed for Ambrosius. This was my last mission.”

“Then finish it.” I grabbed for my maps, chose one and spread it on the table. “You’ll ship from Severn anyway. Have you a good horse?”

“The best,” Ursus chortled. “Stole him from Agrivaine.”

“You .larcenous old crow.” I poured his cup full again. “You’ll have years to get bored in Brittany. Will you give me just five days? For Ambrosius?”

Ursus took a long pull at his beer, considering. Then he slammed it down on the table. “Hell, I owe him that much. Orders?”

“You’re a friend and a Roman.” I gripped his hand gratefully, then grabbed for stylus and vellum, scribbling as fast as I could. “Map, Ursus. That one there.”

Men were what I needed, not to fight but to raise their voices, as many as would come from reserves which must now be drained shamelessly. Kay from Severn. Maelgwyn, Prince of the Catuvellauni, who owed me his restored power. Beautiful, mad Geraint whose debt at Neth could now be called. I appealed to Kay’s political sense, Maelgwyn’s gratitude and Geraint’s honor. Each for his reason, they must come, Ursus watched with enjoyment as I scratched away, my tongue stuck out in concentration.

“You’re the old man’s own for sure.” He chuckled. “You’re going to try, aren’t you?”

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“Try?” I went on writing with sure, rapid strokes. “Ambrosius taught me one thing. How to be the best, and that’s by Jesu what I am. Try, hell. I’m going to win!”

I strode down the line of tents as the men struck them to load on the packhorses. We traveled light and fast; no grooms or servants. The packhorses were the only part of us one couldn’t use as an attack weapon. The sun sat on the western horizon. Only a little light left, but we’d traveled by night before. In the morning, we’d be a long way north.

In the middle of this leave-taking flurry, calm Lancelot still had in his charge the woman and her child and the sad horse.

“I’ll take her, Lancelot. Get ready to leave and see I’m saddled, there’s a good lad.”

“Yes, Count.” He patted the child on the head. “I told her it would be all right.”

A weight was gone from all of us. Even the smell wasn’t so oppressive now. “You were that sure of me?”

Lancelot squinted away toward the sunset. Was he smiling? “You can call it that. God be with you, sir.”

He touched the child once more, lingeringly, it seemed. Then Ancellius Falco, God’s own millstone, actually sauntered away.

No longer frightened, the woman still didn’t trust me as she fed a morsel of pear to her child, shifting the infant to her far side. Besides pear mush, the baby sported a milk moustache. Someone had fitted the discouraged horse with a cast-off saddle and a fat sack of provisions. Whatever my judgment, the men clearly indicated their own.

“You understand Brit, woman?”

She didn’t look up, but the dirty braids wagged. “Some.”

“Get up. Go home.”

“Home?”

“On the horse, damn it. Here, I’ll hold the bairn.”

“No.” She flinched away, wrapping herself around the child.

“I won’t hurt him. Up, go home.”

Barely convinced, she relinquished the smelly child just long enough to mount. A boy, wouldn’t you know it. One more to come back later. Mounted, the woman snatched him back. I handed her the reins.

“You know me, woman?”

“Ja.” The cold forest eyes had an unforgiving set. “Ar-tur.”

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“Then tell your thanes what Arthur says. This is British land. Briton land. You hear?”

She gathered the reins in one red hand, settling the child in front of her. She spoke in halting gutturals.

“Saxon land. We made the com come. Land was nothing, just grass. We made corn, Welshman.”

“Get out of here.” I gave the horse a vicious smack on the rump. “Go.”

Startled, the ancient animal stumbled forward a few steps, then lapsed into a shambling walk, rolling and swaying like a foundered ship. The woman never looked back.

Caesar’s roads were my friends again. Next day toward noon we raised the monastery at Cair Luit Coyt, which the Saxons now call Lichfield. The monks were a healing order and suffered comparatively little from heathen raids. Somewhat dismayed at our numbers, the abbot nevertheless made us welcome. While the weather turned wet, we settled down to wait for allies. That we slept on benches and tables mattered not at all. The rain cleansed, the plain food was free of taint. We rested, scrubbed the smell of death from our skins and breathed clean air.

Prince Maelgwyn came next day, a rotund, easy-tempered man leading a dozen Catuvellaun chiefs and their sons—all he could scrape up, having just come from exile. More rain, two unrelenting days of it while my men looked to the south and asked wilt they come?