To Stirling's irritation, Ancelotis didn't know, nor was the Scots king particularly interested in statues and monuments that had vanished more than a century previously. Doubtless any statue depicting a pagan deity had ignited the full and blazing wrath of Caerleul's Christian priesthood—and anything bronze had doubtless been melted down long since to recover the valuable metal. Britain had been providing the ancient world's supply of tin for centuries, but it was much easier to melt down existing bronze than create new batches of the alloy from its constituent metals. Bronze hadn't been required for weapons in centuries, of course, but many a luxury item was fashioned of it.
It was rather sad, however, that the grand arena had been stripped of what had doubtless been its greatest finery, since what was left was heartlessly plain and utilitarian. The one luxurious note stood halfway down the homestretch, shading the only section of stone seating in the entire arena: an awning of purple-bordered white wool, which protected Briton royalty from inclement weather. A wise precaution, given the threat from ragged, rain-heavy clouds racing low across the sky, in tattered banners caught in the crosscurrents of unpredictable winds.
Kings from most of the kingdoms of Britain shared the pavilion, along with their queens, councillors, and a few princes of royal blood from distant Briton neighbors, representing their fathers and voting proxy in the council to be held tonight, after the last of the week-long funerary games. It had taken this long for some of the visiting princes and kings to reach Caerleul. Stirling couldn't help wondering what the outcome of the council would be, and how it might affect his mission.
He puzzled for a moment over why the royal pavilion hadn't been set up on the balcony above the starting boxes, which would have offered better shelter from the weather, then decided the view would be better from mid-track. Stirling picked out Morgana under the awning, seated next to her nephew and her two very young sons, Gwalchmai and Walgabedius, names that had startled him when they'd first translated in his mind into their English equivalents: Gawain and Galahad, aged six and four, respectively. The boys had arrived from Trapain Law only the previous day, unable to travel any faster. Stirling's throat closed, or perhaps Ancelotis' did, seeing those two small figures huddled close to their mother. Both children had clung to her since their arrival, eyes wide and bereft. Little Gwalchmai, not quite seven years old yet, had gazed up at his uncle with a brave attempt at manliness in his little face. Ancelotis had crouched down in front of the child and very gently removed the heavy golden torque from his own neck.
"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 kennels, while she flipped her skirts at whatever had caught her fancy for the moment.
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.