“Alive, damn you! I want this whoreson alive!” The voice seemed impossibly familiar to me. Through the pounding of my head I tried to remember where I had heard it before, but the roaring in my ears was growing louder and suddenly I found myself facedown in the grass, my mouth open in a puddle of mud. I grunted and spat and tried to roll over, to get my face away from the threat of drowning.
When I opened my eyes again the rain had stopped and I was in great pain and still lying on the grass. I tried then to roll again, but I could not. I couldn’t move, and the effort of trying was unendurable, but I gradually became aware of what was causing my immobility: I was on my knees, but face down on the grass, and someone had thrust a stick of some kind across my back, locking it in place with my elbows and then tying my wrists tightly across my belly. The ends of the stick, protruding on each side of me, made it impossible for me to roll to either side. I found that I could turn my head, however, providing I moved it very slowly, and so I worked painfully until I could see what lay on the other side of me. It was Ursus, and he was unconscious, bleeding profusely from what looked like a deep wound on his scalp. He was very close to me and his arms had been tied the same way as mine, allowing me to see that the stick securing his elbows was a spear shaft, which made it likely that mine was, too. But who were the people who had attacked us, and why had their leader wanted to take Ursus, and presumably me, too, alive?
Before I could even start to puzzle over an answer, I heard movement on the other side of me and turned my head slowly and carefully back to see what was there. The soaked logs of our fire, which had not survived the storm after all, lay directly in front of me now, blocking my vision, and the sour stench of wet ash filled my nostrils. But beyond the soaked heap of the ashes in the fire pit, two figures came into view. Looming high above me and ludicrously distorted by the angle of my vision, they moved forward and stood gazing down at Ursus, ignoring me. Both men wore heavy iron helmets with full face flaps that hid their features and both wore heavy military-style cloaks, but neither the helmets nor the cloaks looked Roman, although I could not have said why.
One of the two men hawked and spat on the ground. “This has to be him. He fits the description and he’s the only one we found in a day of searching.”
“What about the other one?”
“What about him? He’s an accomplice and he’ll share the other’s fate. But I want to get them back as quickly as possible. Looks as though the rain’s passed by, so let’s get on the road. Call the others and make them ready. Four men to accompany these two. Ropes around their necks and let them walk, or run if they have to. They’re lucky I don’t hang them. Whoresons.” He sneezed, and then cursed loudly, reaching up to pull the helmet from his head with one hand while he wiped his mouth and nostrils with the back of the other, and as a shaft of moonlight lit his face I recognized him.
“Chulderic?” My lips formed the word, but no sound emerged. I stretched my neck and spat to clear my mouth before trying again. This time I tried harder, however, determined that he should hear me, and his name came out as a shout.
“Chulderic, is that you?”
I saw the amazement and consternation that swept his face as he jerked his head around to look down at me, his eyebrows drawing together into a single bar.
“What in … ? Who are you, to call me by my name, whoreson?” He was gazing straight into my face but clearly did not know me.
“Chulderic, it’s me, Clothar, son of—Ban!” On the very point of blurting out my true father’s name, I remembered all the dire warnings I had ever heard about the dangers involved in that, and changed the words on my lips. “Clothar of Benwick!”
He stood stunned, peering at me open mouthed, incapable of moving, yet weaving slightly on his feet as though he might pitch forward and fall down.
“What did you say?” he asked after what seemed like a long time, and then he took a step and did fall forward, landing on one knee beside the fire and bending forward to grasp my face and turn it to where he could see it more clearly. “Clothar? Is that … ? By the white bull of Mithras, it is you. How come you here, boy?” He looked up at his companion and barked, “Get him up out of there and cut him free.” The man moved swiftly to obey, lifting me gently to my feet and then cutting firmly at the ropes binding my wrists across my belly before removing the spear from across my back.
“I’m on my way home,” I said as the ropes fell away from my wrists and before the pain of returning circulation had time to strike. “To King Ban, with messages from Bishop Germanus. My friend here is Ursus, who has been guarding me along the way. Cut him loose, please.”
“Urs—?” Chulderic glanced from me to my unconscious companion and then back to me again. “This is a friend of yours? The bowman? Is he a Roman? Can you vouch for him?”
Now I spoke through gritted teeth as I tried to deny the agony in my wrists and ankles, and I had little patience with what I saw as Chulderic’s obtuseness. “For what? Of course I can vouch for him, but I don’t know what you want. Nor do I know if he’s a Roman. All I do know is that he’s a good man.”
“Ah, so you don’t know him that well … . Has he been with you all day long?”
“Aye, he has, and all day yesterday, too, since we left the garrison at Lugdunum. He has not been out of my sight for nigh on three weeks. Why are you asking me these questions? What do you think he has done?”
“He has nigh murdered King Ban, boy. That is what he’s done.”
“Balls!” The expletive came naturally to my lips and Chulderic did not even blink at it. “Ursus has been riding by my side since we left Lugdunum yesterday at dawn. I told you that. We have not even stopped to hunt since then. We camped at the twenty-fourth mile marker last night and traveled on today until the storm began to build, late in the afternoon. We made camp, right here, to wait out the storm.” I stopped then, realizing what the old man had said about King Ban. “Is the King dead?”
“No. I said he was nigh murdered, not killed dead. He lies about five miles from here, in an armed camp. Someone shot him yesterday, from afar—a sneaking, cowardly attack that almost succeeded but fell short.”
“You mean the arrow fell short?”
“No, boy, the attempt fell short, of complete success. The arrow struck the King beneath his upraised arm as he stood up in his stirrups to rally his men, and it struck deep and high into his chest, its point deflected upward by the armpit rim of his cuirass. The wound is grievous, but it might not yet be fatal. The next few days will tell, and he is surrounded by physicians and the surgeon Sakander, the best there is. If anyone can save him, Sakander will.”
“And you think Ursus did this thing, in my company?”
“We have a description of him, Clothar. He was seen. A tall man, dressed in black and well armored, carrying a bow.”
“And riding a high black horse?”
“What? No. We heard no tale of any horse. The killer was afoot.”
“Well someone has mistaken Ursus for someone else. He is tall, and he wears black and has good armor and a bow, but he also rides a magnificent horse, the twin to mine. Both are close by here, hobbled in good pasture with a third animal, a packhorse, about a hundred paces along the riverbank there. Did you not check them?”
The old man frowned. “Not in the dark, no. We came up on your tent under cover of the storm because one of our scouts had seen you late in the evening, before the storm broke. But he said nothing of horses.” He turned again to his companion and indicated Ursus. “Do as he says, Jonas. Cut him free. We’ve obviously made an error here. Master Clothar, as you’ve heard, is King Ban’s nephew.”