Art turned to look at them. “Is this so?” he asked, wonderingly. “Can it be that you’d all rather lose your whole world than learn how to govern it together?”
Mor, Srath Chluaidh and Ceneu carefully avoided his eyes. Lance watched, waiting for an answer, aware that everyone on the benches around him was waiting tensely too. Lance had been astonished to learn that the Hen Ogledd kings had come willingly to Din Guardi. Had Arthur been na?ve? It seemed all too likely that each of the old men glowering at him from their thrones had simply come here determined to get Art’s famous army behind their own separate wars. Perhaps that was the only reason why Coel had opened up Din Guardi to him in the first place.
But, oddly, it was Coel who spoke at last. “It has been so, Artorius,” he said reluctantly. “Yes, it has been so. However, I for one am ready to talk.”
A moment of possibilities. Arthur’s cool grey gaze kindled, became almost boyish again with hope. Coel’s own household and retinue looked as astonished as the rival kings. Out of all of them, Coel had been the most bloodymindedly determined to hold his realm without help from his neighbours. If he, of all men, would stand down…
But Garbonian laughed out loud. “If the day ever comes, father, I’ll embroider the flag of the united kingdom with my own hands! Listen to me, King Artorius. What use is one old man who might just be willing to negotiate, if he doesn’t change his mind next morning, when his gout bothers him, or Mor or Ceneu looks at him sideways? Outside in the settlements west of here, I have ten Anglian princes and nobles ready to come and make treaty with you tomorrow, for the joint defence of this land!”
The silence that fell was electric. It was also short-lived. Lance saw Art look round the hall, judging the mood of his men in one comprehensive glance. He would have picked out the best of them, the chiefs and commanders, to attend with him here, but they weren’t without their boiling point. As for Coel, he was upright again, face livid, and Lance noted with alarm that he’d unshipped his battleaxe from his belt, to God knew what murderous end. “Is that where you spent your morning, you puppy?” the old man roared. “Grovelling and plotting with your pirate friends?”
“Enough, Coel,” Art warned him. Then he repeated it, loudly, against the rising tide of jeers from the crowd. “Enough! Enough for today.” This time they didn’t attend him. His palm sought the hilt of Excalibur, and his voice rang out. “I said it’s enough!”
Doves flew in the old hall’s rafters. Lance barely noticed their sunlit flight, the absolute hush that fell down like loosened feathers from their wings. He could hear nothing but his own raggedly thumping heart. Then Arthur spoke once more, quiet and ordinary. “It’s enough. Hot tempers offer bad counsel. I will speak privately with Garbonian. Tomorrow we convene again.”
***
The crush around the doors was considerable. Garbonian, quite aware of the effect he’d produced, was amongst the first to shove his way out. Gaius pointed to him, ploughing a track past the gallery. “There he is, the weasel,” he said, slapping Lance on the knee. “I’m going after him—I want to settle our bet before somebody kills him. You stay here and catch up with Art. See you later.”
He vaulted the rail and was gone. Lance remained seated, waiting for the crowd to thin. It was good of Guy to make him so welcome. When he closed his eyes, he could see once again the sweep of Viviana’s moorland on the day when he’d first taken Art there, to the untamed heights where he’d encountered his life’s first mysteries. At the time, he’d barely noticed how Guy had sent them off together, wordlessly creating a safe hour for them—the sweetest of Lance’s life—and setting himself to guard it from a discreet distance. Guy had been on his side, on their side, and as the lonely months afterward had unfolded, Lance had blessed him for it again and again.
But perhaps Guy had created such hours for his brother many times. Perhaps his duty of guardianship had included them, ensuring that the future king could roll around in safety with a boy or a girl of his choice. Lance’s mother would have found nothing strange in that. By such encounters, a man increased his potency and skills, making himself fit for the honours his queen would one day bestow upon him.
Father Tomas, Lance’s village priest, would have said his soul was hellbound. Lance smiled. If he had half the chance, he’d have joined Art in hell anytime. Art was still there among the thrones, listening patiently to Coel, who appeared to be tearing his hair out. Certainly he wasn’t looking around for old friends. Guy had surely exaggerated the importance of Lance’s arrival.
Lance didn’t mind. Of course I don’t bloody mind, he told himself sternly. He had come here as a soldier. Easing off the bench, he dropped down the gallery steps into the groups of chattering, quarrelling stragglers, and was borne with them out into the sun.
Outside, the day was ending in shafts of brilliant light. Lance had never travelled as far east as this coast, and although sometimes when the wind was right, faint tangs of brine had blown over the hills of White Meadows, he had never smelt the salt of the North Sea.
He followed the scent, shading his eyes from the sun. Blood and metal, he thought, trying to define its richness. Kelp, and the air before a storm. A big gale was galloping in off the water. He hardly had to breathe for the air to find its way to the depths of his lungs. It was stingingly fresh. He fought the impression that it was greeting him, buffeting him with its wings in boisterous welcome. He threaded his way towards its source, through the maze of small buildings that made up the fort, and soon emerged onto the cliff.
A low parapet wall bounded the seaward side. There wasn’t much need for more here, Lance reflected, taking in the beautiful defensibility of it. You could almost see clear to Juteland, so clear and bright did the setting sun lie on the water. The invaders troubling Bryneich now must have found their way ashore elsewhere: no-one could ever surprise Din Guardi. From the seaward base of the wall, the cliff plunged a sheer hundred feet to the dunes. Lance leaned out to see the high-water mark. A fine chain of seaweed and shells traced the white sand about two thirds of the way up the beach from the water, but he wondered if, on stormy nights, the east wind ever heaped up the waves so high that they dashed themselves on the very roots of Din Guardi…
“Lance!”