youth.
“Not even the Romanscould have built so high without the aid of the gods,” he said. Then he crossed himself.
I held my tongue. If he knew what the gods truly were, he would weep in shocked disillusion.
“Look, Orion!” he shouted. “Ambrosius himself is at the parapet to welcome us!”
It was true. The bright blue-and-gold flags of the High King snapped briskly in the hot breeze up on the crenellations atop Cadbury’smain gate. The drawbridge was down and through the open gate I could see that the castle’s courtyard was thronged with people. If Ambrosius had truly sent those scoundrels to murder Arthur, why would he be waiting at his castle’s main gate with pennants flying?
I thought I knew the answer. The would-be murderers had been sent by Aten, the Golden One. He knew I was resisting his commands to killArthur, so he arranged the previous night’s attack. Even though it had failed, it had opened a wound of suspicion between the High King and his young adopted nephew.
Arthur spurred his mount lightly and trotted up the steep, dusty road, eager to reach the castle. I urged my horse forward, to be close enough to protect Arthur if the need arose. He had no idea that the gods he dreamed of wantedto kill him, no idea that I was defying those so-called gods to protect him.
“My uncle Ambrosius waits to greet us,” Arthur said as I pulled up beside him. His handsome face was wreathed in a delighted smile.
“You see? The word of your victory at Amesbury has pleased him,” I said.
“Yes, perhaps so,” Arthur agreed.
I glanced up at the flapping banners atop the open castle gate. I could seea group of men standing there, watching our approach. One of them must have been Ambrosius, Arthur’s uncle, High King of the British Celts.
Arthur’s eyes followed my gaze, but I heard him muttering, “We can drive the barbarians completely out of Britain, drive them away for good—if only Ambrosius will have faith in my plan.”
“He will, my lord, I’m sure,” I said.
Arthur nodded, but it was obviousthat his thoughts had turned elsewhere. We rode along in silence up the switchbacks of the road, climbing the hill on which Cadbury castle was sited.
“What do you think of the castle, Orion?” Arthur asked at last. “Have you ever seen such mighty walls, such high towers?”
I smiled and kept the truth to myself. “It would be difficult to take by storm, my lord.”
“Difficult!” He laughed, a youthful,boyish laugh. “I could defend Cadbury against all the barbarian hordes for a hundred years!”
No, I thought. You won’t be allowed to live that long.
3
Ambrosius styled himself High King of the Britons, which meant that many of the petty kingdoms of the isles professed allegiance to him. He had earned that fealty by battling the Saxons and the other invading tribes for many years, building thestring of hilltop forts such as Amesbury in the hope of holding the invading barbarians to their beachheads and not allowing them to penetrate into the heartland of Britain.
He had fought other Celts, as well. Celtic Britain was a patchwork of petty “kingdoms,” each ruler jealous of his neighbors, suspicious of the kingdom over the next hill. When the Romans ruled Britain, the Celts had all bowedto Roman law. But once the legions were withdrawn, the very year that Rome itself was sacked by the Visigoths, the Celts swiftly reverted to their paltry rivalries.
Like his father before him, the Elder Ambrosius, this High King had won his shaky allegiances as much by the power of his sword over his fellow Celts as the need for all the Celts to unite against the invaders. The allegiances swornto him were grudging, at best. Only a High King of inflexible will and exceptional power could keep the lesser kings loyal to him.
Now, as we assembled in the castle’s great hall to have audience with the High King, I saw that Ambrosius Aurelianus—as he styled himself—was getting old. His lifelong
“Not even the Romanscould have built so high without the aid of the gods,” he said. Then he crossed himself.
I held my tongue. If he knew what the gods truly were, he would weep in shocked disillusion.
“Look, Orion!” he shouted. “Ambrosius himself is at the parapet to welcome us!”
It was true. The bright blue-and-gold flags of the High King snapped briskly in the hot breeze up on the crenellations atop Cadbury’smain gate. The drawbridge was down and through the open gate I could see that the castle’s courtyard was thronged with people. If Ambrosius had truly sent those scoundrels to murder Arthur, why would he be waiting at his castle’s main gate with pennants flying?
I thought I knew the answer. The would-be murderers had been sent by Aten, the Golden One. He knew I was resisting his commands to killArthur, so he arranged the previous night’s attack. Even though it had failed, it had opened a wound of suspicion between the High King and his young adopted nephew.
Arthur spurred his mount lightly and trotted up the steep, dusty road, eager to reach the castle. I urged my horse forward, to be close enough to protect Arthur if the need arose. He had no idea that the gods he dreamed of wantedto kill him, no idea that I was defying those so-called gods to protect him.
“My uncle Ambrosius waits to greet us,” Arthur said as I pulled up beside him. His handsome face was wreathed in a delighted smile.
“You see? The word of your victory at Amesbury has pleased him,” I said.
“Yes, perhaps so,” Arthur agreed.
I glanced up at the flapping banners atop the open castle gate. I could seea group of men standing there, watching our approach. One of them must have been Ambrosius, Arthur’s uncle, High King of the British Celts.
Arthur’s eyes followed my gaze, but I heard him muttering, “We can drive the barbarians completely out of Britain, drive them away for good—if only Ambrosius will have faith in my plan.”
“He will, my lord, I’m sure,” I said.
Arthur nodded, but it was obviousthat his thoughts had turned elsewhere. We rode along in silence up the switchbacks of the road, climbing the hill on which Cadbury castle was sited.
“What do you think of the castle, Orion?” Arthur asked at last. “Have you ever seen such mighty walls, such high towers?”
I smiled and kept the truth to myself. “It would be difficult to take by storm, my lord.”
“Difficult!” He laughed, a youthful,boyish laugh. “I could defend Cadbury against all the barbarian hordes for a hundred years!”
No, I thought. You won’t be allowed to live that long.
3
Ambrosius styled himself High King of the Britons, which meant that many of the petty kingdoms of the isles professed allegiance to him. He had earned that fealty by battling the Saxons and the other invading tribes for many years, building thestring of hilltop forts such as Amesbury in the hope of holding the invading barbarians to their beachheads and not allowing them to penetrate into the heartland of Britain.
He had fought other Celts, as well. Celtic Britain was a patchwork of petty “kingdoms,” each ruler jealous of his neighbors, suspicious of the kingdom over the next hill. When the Romans ruled Britain, the Celts had all bowedto Roman law. But once the legions were withdrawn, the very year that Rome itself was sacked by the Visigoths, the Celts swiftly reverted to their paltry rivalries.
Like his father before him, the Elder Ambrosius, this High King had won his shaky allegiances as much by the power of his sword over his fellow Celts as the need for all the Celts to unite against the invaders. The allegiances swornto him were grudging, at best. Only a High King of inflexible will and exceptional power could keep the lesser kings loyal to him.
Now, as we assembled in the castle’s great hall to have audience with the High King, I saw that Ambrosius Aurelianus—as he styled himself—was getting old. His lifelong
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