I was reminded then that I had not yet told Ambrose the sad news that Connor had brought. I watched his expression carefully as I spoke. "You do know that Athol is dead, don't you? Brander is the new king." Clearly he had not heard.
"Strange," he muttered. "You would think the news would have reached us before now, if he died that long ago. The death of a king is noteworthy, cause for much talk."
"Aye, but Athol's new holdings are far north of here, and newly won. And they are islands. The people have been winter bound. No means existed for the tidings to travel to Mediobogdum, or even to Ravenglass."
I went on to ask him about the biremes supposedly being used by Ironhair's armies. Ambrose nodded, looking grim. "Aye, he has them, two of the whoresons. I haven't seen them, but I've heard all about them. They're the biggest ships ever seen in these seas, I'm told, and they carry enormous numbers of men and great quantities of stores. Roman navy biremes, here in Britain, fighting for Ironhair! They have an army of oarsmen, but each of them also carries its own army Of warriors! And then, in addition to all that, they ferry levies for Ironhair in the bellies of the things. Apparently they have huge cargo holds, built right into the bodies of the ships themselves, and they carry their own cranes to load them and unload them."
"Aye, well that's nothing new—the cranes, I mean. Connor's galleys have the same device, although probably much smaller. Where did they come from, these ships?"
Ambrose shrugged his shoulders. "I have no idea. The vessel you told me about, the one you saw on your way to Eire, is the only thing of that type I've ever heard of, and I've never been able to imagine what that looked like. The thought of two of them, and the possibility that there might be even more, confounds me. God knows where Ironhair found the things. "
"Well, Brother, wherever he found them, they were for sale or for hire, and now they're here, ferrying his vermin into Cambria. What about Carthac, is he still alive?"
That brought a grunt of disgust. "Aye, he is, still alive and still demented. He'll always be demented, but I'm beginning to fear he'll always be alive, too. He seems to be unkillable. God knows many have tried. I've heard two different reports of close shot Pendragon arrows being deflected from his armour. "
"I don't believe it. Who told you that?"
He shrugged. "Two people. Two separate reports, two separate incidents. "
"How close were the shots? Did you speak to either bowman?"
"No, I merely heard the reports. "
"Rumours, then. Soldiers' stories. Those bows are accurate from a quarter mile away. A close shot from a Pendragon longbow will pierce any armour ever made, if it hits clean. Someone ought to have killed him by now with one of those things. I'll grant he may be formidable, fighting hand to hand—from all reports he's big enough to be indomitable—but he's not immortal. And you say there's no word at all of Vortigern?"
"Not a breath. Utter silence out of the northeast. "
"But Hengist is dead, you are sure of that?" He nodded. "Well, you and I agreed years ago that when Hengist died, Vortigern would have trouble with Horsa. For all we know , Vortigern might be at war right now, or he might be dead, long since. If he's at war, he might appreciate some token of support, to keep Horsa off balance. If he is dead, on the other hand, then Horsa is at large, and in power. I think we ought to try and find out what the situation is up there, don't you agree?"
Ambrose thought about that as he leaned forward to stir the fire with an iron rod that lay before the brazier. "Aye, I do," he murmured eventually. "But how? It's a long way from here to there, and logic dictates that we would only be inviting grief by going looking for trouble that might otherwise pass us by."
"Horse turds, Ambrose! You don't believe that any more than I do. Logic dictates that whatever can go wrong will go wrong if you choose to leave your fate in any way in the hands of a mad young bull like Horsa. You once told me Vortigern thought of himself as High King of all Britain, remember'? Well, he has never ruled down here, so his fancies were no more than that. But what if he discussed those fancies with others? All it would take for Horsa would be the suggestion that there might be more settled areas of Britain ripe for conquest, and he'd be here, at the head of his hordes. I don't think we can afford to wait for that to happen, and I don't think we can afford to take the risk that it won't. I think we have to go and see what's going on, up there in Northumbria, and I believe we should go up along the Saxon Shore, now, immediately."
"What? You mean an expedition in force? But that would mean—"
"Aye, I know it would. It would mean splitting our forces when we have a war to deal with here already. I know it's not feasible to do the thing now as it ought to be done, but I still think it's foolish not to slip up there and take a look, at least. The thought of an army of Horsa's Danes falling about our necks while we're involved with Ironhair is not a pleasant notion. "
"No, I've known that for months, but I've been hesitant to commit any kind of force to the task while you were away in the north. I've had enough trouble with the thought of leaving this place in other hands while I ride off to Cambria. " He pulled himself out of his chair and went to stand over the fire, rubbing his hands together in the heat rising from the coals. "That sounded different from what I had been thinking, when I said it aloud, so I don't want you to misunderstand me. We have good men here. Any one of our senior people is more than capable of looking after things in my absence, commanding the garrison and tending to daily affairs. Tactically speaking, they're all superb. But in terms of strategic ability, I don't know, Cay. There's not a single man I can think of whom I'd care—perhaps even dare—to trust with the responsibility of reacting instantaneously and decisively should the drastic need arise. " He held up a hand to forestall my objections, but I had none because I knew exactly what was in his mind. Seeing that, he continued.
"I know I should be able to delegate absolute authority in my absence. That's not my concern. My problem is, quite simply, that none of our second level commanders has ever had that kind of requirement thrust upon him. Any one of diem would accept my dictates, and assume the command and the responsibility, I've no doubt of that. But could any one of them act decisively, should the need arise? Would he commit every resource he had at his disposal to all out war on a new front—here, at home—on his own authority, or would he hesitate and wait for some kind of endorsement from me? I simply don't know, Cay, and I haven't dared risk the uncertainty. Lip service and willingness are not enough, not with so much at stake, and until I've seen with my own eyes that whoever I choose is capable of taking absolute control—and that's impossible, since I would have to be here when he needed to and that would negate the need—Ach! I can't even make sense to me!"
I cleared my throat and sat forward in my seat. "I know you expected me to interrupt you, but you are right. The problem is real and worrisome, and it has occurred to me long before now. I suppose it means, in the absolute, that armies require wars—not merely defensive disciplines—to evoke their true strength, and that's a sobering thought."
"You've thought of this before? How? When?"
"Oh, a few years ago, before I left for Ravenglass. I meant to talk with you about it at the time, but the opportunity never arose. It came to me one night, when I was thinking about ambition and what that entails. It began with Peter Ironhair. I realized that none of our senior officers seem to possess his ruthless ambition, the kind that's necessary to achieve true greatness as commanders. They're good and able men, one and all, but they're all followers. And so I began to wonder why that should be so."