Ghost King

  Now he watched as the noblemen cantered toward the wooded hills, then returned to his quarters behind the long stables. His eyes scanned the Deicester men as they lounged by the alehouse, and he began to grow uneasy. There was no love lost between the disparate groups assembled there, though the truce had been well maintained—a broken nose here, a sprained wrist there, but mostly the retainers had kept to themselves. But today Gwalchmai sensed a tension in the air, a brightness in the eyes of the soldiers.

  He wandered into the long room. Only two of the king’s men were there: Victorinus and Caradoc. They were playing knucklebones, and the Roman was losing with good grace.

  “Rescue me, Gwal,” said Victorinus. “Save me from my stupidity.”

  “There’s not a man alive who could do that!” Gwalchmai moved to his cot and his wrapped blankets. He drew his gladius and scabbard from the roll and strapped the sword to his waist.

  “Are you expecting trouble?” asked Caradoc, a tall rangy tribesman of Belgae stock.

  “Where are the others?” he answered, avoiding the question.

  “Most of them have gone to the village. There’s a fair organized.”

  “When was this announced?”

  “This morning,” said Victorinus, entering the conversation. “What has happened?”

  “Nothing as yet,” said Gwalchmai, “and I hope to Mithras nothing does. But the air smells wrong.”

  “I can’t smell anything wrong with it,” Victorinus responded.

  “That’s because you’re a Roman,” put in Caradoc, moving to his blanket roll and retrieving his sword.

  “I’ll not argue with a pair of superstitious tribesmen, but think on this: If we walk around armed to the teeth, we could incite trouble. We could be accused of breaking the spirit of the truce.”

  Gwalchmai swore and sat down. “You are right, my friend. What do you suggest?”

  Victorinus, though younger than his companions, was well respected by the other men in the King’s Guards. He was steady, courageous, and a sound thinker. His solid Roman upbringing also proved a perfect counterpoint to the unruly, explosive temperaments of the Britons who served the king.

  “I am not altogether sure, Gwal. Do not misunderstand me, for I do not treat your talents lightly. You have a nose for traps and an eye that reads men. If you say something is amiss, then I’ll wager that it is. I think we should keep our swords hidden inside our tunics and wander around the keep. It may be no more than a lingering ill feeling among the Deicester men for Caradoc here taking their money last night in the knife-throwing tourney.”

  “I do not think so,” Caradoc said. “In fact, I thought they took it too well. It puzzled me at the time, but it did not feel right. I even slept with one hand on my dagger.”

  “Let us not fly too high, my friends,” said Victorinus. “We will meet back here in an hour. If there is danger in the air, we should all get a sniff of it.”

  “And what if we find something?” asked Caradoc.

  “Do nothing. If you can, walk away from trouble. Swallow pride.”

  “No man should be asked to do that,” protested the Belgae.

  “That may be true, my volatile friend. But if there is trouble, then let the Deicester men start it. The king will be less than pleased if you break the truce; he’ll flay the skin from your back.”

  Gwalchmai moved to the window and pushed open the wooden shutters.

  “I do not think we need to concern ourselves about hiding weapons,” he said softly. “The Deicester men are all armed.”

  Victorinus swept up his blanket roll. “Gather your gear now and follow me. Swiftly.”

  “There are about a dozen of them coming this way with swords in their hands,” said Gwalchmai, ducking down from the window. Gathering his belongings, he followed his two companions to the roughly carved wooden door leading to the stables. Drawing their swords, they stepped through and pulled the door shut behind them. Swiftly they saddled three horses and rode out into the yard.

  “There they are!” someone shouted, and soldiers rushed out to block the riders. Victorinus kicked his mount into a gallop, crashing into the crowding warriors, who scattered and fell to the cobbles. Then the trio were thundering under the beamed gateway and out into the snow-swept hills.

  They had not traveled more than a mile when they came upon the bodies of their comrades, lying in a hollow by a frozen stream. The retainers had been armed only with knives, but at least eleven of the seventeen had been killed by arrows. The rest had been hacked to death by swords or axes.

  The three men sat their horses in silence. There was no point dismounting. They gazed at the dead faces of those who had been their friends or at the least their comrades in war. By a gnarled oak lay the body of Atticus, the rope walker. Around him the snow was stained with blood, and it was obvious that he alone of all the retainers had managed to inflict wounds on the attackers.

  “At least three men,” said Caradoc, as if reading the thoughts of his companions. “But then, Atticus was a tough whoreson. What do we do now, Victorinus?”

  The young Roman stayed silent for a moment, scanning the horizon. “The king,” he said softly.

  “And the boy!” said Gwalchmai. “Sweet Juno! We must find them—warn them.”

  “They are dead,” said Victorinus, removing his bronze helm and staring at his distorted reflection. “That is why the retainers were lured away and murdered and why the king was invited on the stag hunt. It was a royal stag they hunted. We must get back to Caerlyn and warn Aquila.”

  “No!” Caradoc shouted. “This treachery cannot go unpunished.”

  Victorinus saw the pain in the Belgae’s eyes. “And what will you do, Caradoc? Ride back to Deicester and scale the walls to find Eldared?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it would be futile—you would die before getting within a yard of Eldared. Think ahead, man. Aquila does not expect the king back until spring, and he will be unprepared. The first sight he will see coming from the north is the Deicester army and any allies Eldared has gained. They will seize Eboracum, and the traitor will have won.”

  “But we must find the king’s body,” said Gwalchmai. “We cannot leave it for the crows; it is not fitting.”

  “And suppose he is not yet dead?” offered Caradoc. “I would never forgive myself for leaving him.”

  “I know what you are feeling, and I grieve also. But I beg you to put aside emotion and trust Roman logic. Yes, we could bury the king—but what of Eboracum? You think the king’s shade would thank us for putting his body before the fate of his people?”

  “And if he is not dead?” persisted Caradoc.

  “You know that he is,” Victorinus said sadly.

  2

  THURO WAS LOST. It had happened soon after the riders had left the castle, when the dogs had picked up a scent and raced into the dark wood with the hunters thundering after them. Having no intention of galloping into the trees in hot pursuit, he had reined in the mare and followed at a sedate canter, but somewhere along the trail he had taken a wrong turn, and now he could no longer even hear the hounds. The wintry sun was high overhead, and Thuro was cold through to his bones … and he was hungry. The trees were thinner here, the ground slowly rising. The wind had dropped, and Thuro halted by a frozen stream. He dismounted and cracked the ice, dipping his head and sipping the cold fresh water. His father would be so angry with him. He would say nothing, but his eyes would show his displeasure and his face would turn away from the boy.

  Thuro cleared the snow from a flat rock and sat down, considering all the options open to him. He could ride on blindly in the hope of stumbling upon the hunters, or he could follow his own tracks back to the castle. It was not hard to find the right course of action with options such as those. He mounted the mare and swung her back to the south.

  A large stag stepped lightly onto the trail and stopped to watch the rider. Thuro reined in and leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle. “Good mo
rning, prince of the forest; are you also lost?” The stag turned contemptuously away and continued its leisurely pace across the trail and into the trees. “You remind me of my father,” Thuro called after it.

  “Do you often talk to animals?” Thuro turned in the saddle to see a young girl dressed like a forester in a green hooded woolen tunic, leather leggings, and knee-high moccasins fringed with sheepskin. Her hair was short and a mixture of autumnal colors: light brown with a hint of both gold and red. Her face was striking, without a hint of beauty, and yet …

  Thuro bowed. “Do you live near here?” he asked.

  “Perhaps. But obviously you do not. How long have you been lost?”

  “How do you know that I am lost?” he countered.

  The girl stepped away from the tree beside the trail, and Thuro saw that she was carrying a beautiful bow of dark horn. “You may not be lost,” she said, smiling. “It may be that you found your tracks so fascinating that you decided you just had to see them again.”

  “I concede,” he told her. “I am seeking Deicester Castle.”

  “You have friends there?”

  “My father is there. We are guests.”

  “A fortune would not induce me to be a guest of that foul family,” she told him. “Continue on this path until you come to a lightning-blasted oak, then bear right and follow the stream. It will save you time.”

  “Thank you. What is your name?”

  “Names are for friends, young lordling, not to be bandied about among strangers.”

  “Strangers can become friends. In fact, all friends were at some time strangers.”

  “All too true,” she admitted. “But to speak more bluntly, I have no wish to strike up a friendship with a guest of Eldared’s.”

  “I am sorry that you feel this way. It seems a great shame that to sleep in a cold and drafty castle somehow stains the spirit of a man. For what it is worth, my name is Thuro.”

  “You do speak prettily, Thuro,” she said, smiling, “and you have a wonderful eye for horses. Come, join me for the midday meal.”

  Thuro did not question her sudden change of heart but dismounted and led his horse away from the trail, following the girl into the trees and up a winding track to a shallow cave under a sandstone rock face. There a fire had burned low under a copper pot perched on two stones. Thuro tied the mare’s reins to a nearby bush and moved to the fire, where the girl joined him. She added oats to the boiling water, along with a pinch of salt from a small pouch at her side. “Gather some wood,” she told him, “and earn your food.” He did as she had bidden, gathering thick branches from beside the track and carrying them back to the cave.

  “Are you planning to light a beacon fire?” she asked when he returned.

  “I do not understand,” he said.

  “This is a cooking fire. It is intended to heat the oats and water and to give us warmth for an hour or so. The wood you need should be dry and no thicker than a thumb joint. Have you never set a cooking fire?”

  “No. I regret that that is a pleasure I have not yet encountered.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I shall be judged a man next autumn,” he said somewhat stiffly. “And you?”

  “The same as you, Thuro. Fifteen.”

  “I shall fetch some more suitable wood,” he said.

  “Get yourself a platter at the same time.”

  “A platter?”

  “How else will you eat your oats?”

  Thuro was angry as he left the cave, an emotion he rarely felt and one with which he was exceedingly uncomfortable. As he had followed the forest girl, he had become acutely aware of the rhythmic movement of her hips and the liquid grace of her walk. By contrast, he had begun to feel that he was incapable of putting one foot in front of the other without tripping himself. His feet felt twice their size. He longed to do something to impress her and for the first time in his young life wished he were a shade more like his father. Pushing the thoughts from his mind, he gathered wood for the fire, finding also a round flat stone to serve as a platter for his food.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “Not very.” Using a short stick, she expertly lifted the pot from the flames and stirred the thick, milky contents. He passed her his rock, and she giggled.

  “Here,” she said, offering him her own wooden plate. “Use this.”

  “The rock will be fine.”

  “I am sorry, Thuro; it is unfair of me to mock. It is not your fault you are a lordling; you should have brought your servant with you.”

  “I am not a lordling, I am a prince: the son of Maximus the High King. And doubtless were you to be sitting in the hall of Caerlyn, you would feel equally ill at ease discussing the merits of Plutarch’s Life of Lycurgus.”

  Her eyes sparkled, and Thuro realized they echoed the russet tones of her hair: light brown with flecks of gold.

  “You are probably correct, Prince Thuro,” she said with a mock bow, “for I was never at ease with Lycurgus and I agree with Plutarch in his comparison with Numa. How did he put it? ‘Virtue rendered the one so respectable as to deserve a throne, and the other so great as to be above it.’ ”

  Thuro returned the bow, but without mockery. “Forgive my arrogance,” he told her. “I am not used to feeling this foolish.”

  “You are probably more at ease chasing stags and practicing with sword and lance.”

  “No, I am rather poor in those quarters also. I am the despair of my father. I had hoped to impress you with my knowledge, for there is little else I have to brag of.”

  She looked away and poured the cooling oats to her platter, then passed the food to Thuro. “My name is Laitha. Welcome to my hearth, Prince Thuro.” He searched her face for any hint of mockery, but there was none.

  He accepted the food and ate in silence. Laitha put down the pot and leaned back against the cave wall, watching the young man. He was handsome in a gentle fashion, and his eyes were as gray as woodsmoke, softly sad and wondrously innocent. Yet for all the gentleness Laitha saw, she found no trace of weakness in his face. The eyes did not waver or turn aside; the mouth showed no hint of petulance. And his open admission of his physical shortcomings endeared him to the girl, who had seen enough of loudmouthed braggarts vying to prove their strength and manhood.

  “Why do you not excel?” she asked him. “Is your swordmaster a poor teacher?”

  “I have no interest in swordplay. It tires me, and then I fall ill.”

  “In what way ill?”

  He shrugged. “I am told I almost died at birth, and since then my chest has been weak. I cannot exert myself without becoming dizzy—and then my head pounds, and sometimes I lose my sight.”

  “How does your father react to all this?”

  “With great patience and great sadness. I fear I am not the son he would have preferred. But it does not matter. He is as strong as an ox and as fearless as a dragon. He will reign for decades yet, and perhaps he will marry again and sire a proper heir.”

  “What happened to your mother?”

  “She died two days after I was born. The birth was early by a month, and Maedhlyn—our Enchanter—was absent on the king’s business.”

  “And your father never remarried? Strange for a king.”

  “I have never spoken to him of it … but Maedhlyn says she was the still water in his soul, and after she had gone, there was only fire. There is a wall around Maximus and his grief. None may enter. He cannot look me in the face, for I am much like my mother. And in all the time I can remember he has never touched me—not an arm on the shoulder or the ruffling of a single hair. Maedhlyn tells that when I was four, I was struck down with a terrible fever and my spirit was lost within the darkness of the Void. He says my father came to me then and took me in his arms, and his spirit searched for mine across the darkness. He found me and brought me home. But I remember nothing of it, and that saddens me. I would like to be able to recall that moment.”

  “He must love
you greatly,” she whispered.

  “I do not know.” He looked up at her and smiled. “Thank you for the oats. I must be going.”

  “I will guide you to the ford above Deicester,” she said.

  He did not argue and waited while she cleaned her pot, platter, and spoon. She stowed them in a canvas pack that she slung to her shoulder, and then, taking up her bow and quiver, she set out alongside him. The snow was falling thickly, and he was glad she was traveling with him. Without tracks to follow, he knew he would have been lost within minutes.

  They had gone but a little way toward the trail when they heard the sound of horses riding at speed. In the first second that he heard the horsemen Thuro was delighted—soon he would be back at the castle and warm again. But then he realized it would mean saying good-bye to Laitha, and on an impulse he turned from the path, leading the mare deeper into the trees and behind a screen of bushes below the trail.

  Laitha joined him, saying nothing. There were four men, all armed with swords and lances. They drew up a little way ahead and were joined by three riders coming from the opposite direction.

  “Any sign?” The words drifted to Thuro like whispers on the wind, and he felt ashamed to be hiding there. These men were out in the cold searching for him; it was unfair of him to put them to further trouble. He was just about to step into view when another man spoke.

  “No, nothing. It’s incredible. We kill the father in minutes, but the beardless boy causes more trouble.”

  “You are talking nonsense, Calin. The father killed six men—and that was with an arrow deep in his lungs. The boy is costing only time.”

  “Well, I intend to make him pay for wasting my time. I’ll have his eyes roasting on the point of my dagger.”

  Thuro stood statue-still until long after the riders had moved on.

  “I do not think you should go back to Deicester,” Laitha whispered, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  Thuro stood unmoving, staring at the empty trail, his thoughts whirling and diving from fear to regret, from panic to sorrow. His father had been murdered, and Thuro’s world would never be the same again. This morning he had been miserable and cold, seemingly alone in a cheerless castle. But now he knew that he had not been alone, that the giant strength of Aurelius Maximus, the High King, had covered him like a mantle and the companionship of men such as Gwalchmai and Victorinus had shielded him from grimmer realities. Laitha was right; he was a spoiled lordling who did not even know how to set a cooking fire. Now the world was once more in turmoil. Eldared, as Maedhlyn had feared, was a traitor and a regicide. The prince was now a hunted animal with no chance of escaping his hunters. Of what use would be his learning now? Plutarch, Aristotle, and Suetonius were no help to a weakly boy in a perilous wood.