There was a gathering of some kind going on when we arrived there, and the unexpected appearance of a large band of disciplined horsemen caused no small amount of consternation among the participants. Bishop Enos himself, who was a much older man than I had expected him to be, was the first to recognize the armor and trappings of our Camulodian troopers and he quickly brought his flock to order, explaining to them who we were and promising that no one had any reason to be afraid of us.
Listening to the bishop as he called for the attention of the panic-stricken assembly, and carefully observing the unfolding activities in the meadow outside the town walls where the gathering was being conducted, I was impressed to see—and there was no possibility of it being other than it appeared—that the mere mention of the name of Camulod had an immediate calming effect on the crowd. As soon as they heard Bishop Enos mention the name, people began repeating it and they turned to stare inquisitively at the mounted representatives of the distant colony where, rumor had it, the rule of law was still in force and men and women could live in freedom from threat and fear.
Sitting as I was, however, slightly apart from the main body of the troopers, I saw something else. There was one small band of men among the crowd whose behavior was greatly different from that of the people surrounding them. When we first swept into sight of the gathering, the assembly had scattered in panic, reassembling only very slowly after they had seen for themselves that we were not poised to murder them. But one band of men had refused to scatter and had indeed closed in upon themselves, grouping tightly around one man and what appeared to be his family: a woman and two children. The man at the center of this group stood taller than all the others, dominating all of them by at least half a head, and he was carefully coiffed, his hair and beard meticulously trimmed. His eyes were moving even as I noted him, cataloguing our contingent of troopers and flitting from Cyrus to his decurions and finally to me and my small group. I heard Perceval’s voice.
“The tall fellow over there, Clothar, surrounded by the bodyguard. He looks like a chief of some kind—a leader, certainly, whatever rank these people give their headmen. Wonder who he is.”
“I noticed him, too. He could be a king, judging from his bearing, but he might just as easily be some kind of champion or chieftain, as you say. We will find out about him later, from Bishop Enos. Cyrus, put your men at ease and take me to meet the bishop, if you will.”
Enos, however, was not to be idly diverted from his responsibilities. Our arrival had interrupted a prayer gathering in celebration of the anniversary of the martyrdom of Saint Alban, and the bishop invited us to step down and join with him and his congregation in the final prayers of the ceremony. Only when it was over and he had blessed the participants and sent them on their way did he approach me and acknowledge that he had heard me say earlier that I had messages and missives for him from Germanus. He was most hospitable, graciously accepting the leather pouch of writings that I had for him and betraying not the slightest indication that he might be impatient to sit down somewhere and start reading them. Instead, he went out of his way to arrange accommodations for all of us, quartering the troopers in the central hall of the town’s basilica, the administrative hub of the former Roman military government. Germanus, he told us, had cleaned out this and many similar large rooms years earlier, setting his followers to sweeping away the detritus of decades of neglect and turning the refurbished premises over for use by the hundreds of pilgrims who had flocked to Verulamium to attend the great debate he staged here between the orthodox adherents of the Church in Rome and the misguided bishops of Britain who had chosen to follow the teachings of the apostate Pelagius.
Bishop Enos, aware of the ongoing needs of the legions of pilgrims who visited the shrine of Saint Alban each year, and anticipating that the steady increase in their numbers might lead to the town’s having need again of spacious accommodations in the future, had seen the wisdom of maintaining the public rooms in good condition for use as dormitories. The main hall was perfect for our uses, featuring two great stone fireplaces, one at each end of the long room. Wooden cots were already in place at one end, strung with rope netting, and an ample supply of straw-filled palliasses set up on end on some of them, to allow the air to circulate between them and keep them dry, while at the other end of the hall someone had arranged rows of tables and benches. A large courtyard at the rear of the building, paved with cobbles and covered with straw, was easily capable of accommodating all our horses, and the yard itself lay but a few moments’ walk from the grazing meadows beyond the town walls.
Only when he was absolutely satisfied that our needs had all been attended to did the bishop leave us to our own devices while he retired to read the material that I had brought with me from Gaul.
I rose early the following morning, well before dawn, knowing that Enos would be sending for me sooner rather than later, and I had already completed my morning toilet and broken my fast by the time his summons arrived. I followed my guide to the dayroom from which the elderly bishop conducted his episcopal affairs, and Enos came to meet me and make me welcome immediately, ushering me to a comfortably padded armchair and asking me if I would join him in breaking his fast.
I assured him that I had already eaten, but then I had to insist that he eat his own meal, for he immediately signaled to a hovering priest to take the untouched food away. Eventually, however, accepting my protests, he acceded to my wishes and waved the priest away, then began to eat sparingly from a bowl of chopped nuts and fruit which he augmented with small pieces of bread ripped from a crusty, fresh-looking loaf. I talked to him as he ate, telling him about our journey and our adventures along the road, and he soon pushed away his bowl, cleaned his mouth with a draught of plain water, and began the main part of our meeting by asking me how much I knew concerning the information I had brought to him.
His question was more direct than I had expected and I sat blinking at him for several moments before I could collect my thoughts. “I know much of what is involved, sir,” I said eventually. “Bishop Germanus discussed the matter with me at some length.”
The old bishop nodded, then held up his hand, forestalling me. “Forgive me, Master Clothar, but to which matter do you refer?”
“The matter of the Riothamus coronation,” I replied, hearing the surprise in my own voice. What other matter was there? But the bishop was already nodding, plainly satisfied with my answer.
“I see,” he said. “Go on, if you please. What did my brother Germanus hope to achieve in this matter?”
I was becoming confused, beginning to wonder whether or not Enos had actually read the missives I had brought him, but I decided to say nothing and simply to answer the question as posed.
“He is hoping that you will lend him your unqualified support and substitute your presence and your dignitas for his in presiding over the crowning of Merlyn’s ward, Arthur Pendragon, as the new High King of Britain.”