"You're right, my friend. Bring them all here, but stop them short outside. I don't want them inside my tent. "
I waited for the sounds of their approach, and then listened with appreciation to the stilted, metallic rattling of arms and armour as the guard who surrounded them responded to the clipped commands of their officer. Moments later, Donuil approached again and informed me that the delegation from Cornwall awaited me.
I sat still, at my desk, and forced myself to read Ambrose's letter, in its entirety, one more time. Then I rose and threw my ceremonial war cloak about my shoulders, adjusting the hang of it until the heavy, silver wire mass of the great bear embroidered across its back sat snugly, perfectly draped from my shoulders. Beckoning to Bedwyr to accompany me, I picked up my parade helmet and walked outside to where the newcomers stood clustered together under the watchful eyes of a full squadron of the guard who surrounded them on three sides.
Retorix, their leader, was not hard to pick out. He stood half a head taller than his companions, and his clothes were richer and more finely made. He was a well made man himself, broad in the shoulders, narrow of waist and thick legged, perhaps thirty three years of age. He was clean shaven, with no moustache, and armoured in a vaguely Roman fashion: bronze back and breastplates and a domed helmet with a skirt that covered his neck but failed to conceal the thick, rank curls of black hair that hung down past his shoulders. From the waist down he wore no armour. A padded tunic came down to his knees and beneath that he wore breeches of heavy, homespun cloth, cross bound from ankle to knee. The boots he wore were of heavy leather and looked hard and comfortless. A thick, grey cloak of rich wool enhanced the Romanish look of him, hanging from his right shoulder with one end looping up beneath his left arm, where a thick, barbaric ring pin of silver held it in place. I deliberately ignored the other four men and fixed my eyes on Retorix alone.
"Who are you?"
"They call me Retorix. "
"Hot wind?" I saw his eyes widen. 'That is what 'rhetoric' means in my world—hot wind and bullying argument. Rhetorics would be a plurality—a profusion of hot wind. " I could see that my meaning, though not my tone, had blown right over his head, and I chided myself silently for stooping to such a level. "Who are these 'they' that call you Retorix?'
"My people. "
"I knew that, since I presume only your own people would care to own you. Who are your people? That is what I am asking you. "
He drew himself up, his bearing expressing outrage. "The Romans called them the Belgae, the people of Cornwall. "
I stared him in the eye. "The Romans are long since gone. Their day is past. We are Britons. Would you like to know what we call the people of Cornwall nowadays, the people who would submit to the will of such a thing as Peter Ironhair?' I looked away from him, making no effort to disguise my disgust, and then swung back. "My adjutant tells me you have words for me, but I have little time to listen, so spit out what you have to say and then be gone. "
I could see the fellow growing angrier with each word, but he reined himself in and breathed deeply through his nostrils several times before beginning to speak. "You are Merlyn of Camulod, am I right?'
"What of it?'
I saw his eyes move beyond me to where Bedwyr stood at my back, and as I watched his eyes flick up and down, scanning the boy from head to foot, I had a sudden certainty that he thought Bedwyr was Arthur. He had looked at no one else but me since I appeared. He quickly brought his gaze back, however, and try as I might I could discern no sign of interest in the boy in his eyes.
"I bring greetings from my leader, Iron—"
"Then you may take them back with you. I have no wish for diem."
Again he stopped, visibly restraining his anger. "I have a charge upon me, Master Merlyn! Will you permit me to deliver it without being interrupted at every word?"
I stared at him, feeling a reluctant stir of admiration for his self command. Donuil had named him an arrogant blowhard, but I had seen nothing so far to suggest that. "Very well, I will. Say what you have to say to me."
"Ironhair sends his greetings as one leader to another. You as Legate Commander of Camulod, himself as Supreme Commander of the Armies of Cornwall. He will not insult you by pretending that friendship could ever exist between you, nor will he claim that you might negotiate together based upon mutual esteem. But he believes you will acknowledge that both of you, and those associated with you, have much to gain from a cessation of this war." He paused, evidently expecting some kind of response, but I continued to stare at him, allowing no expression to show on my face. Eventually he had no choice but to continue.
"Your presence in Cambria is an intrusion, he believes, while his activities here are legitimate. He represents your distant kinsman, Carthac, whose claim to the vacant kingship of Pendragon is the strongest, claimed through the line of direct parentage." He could not resist the temptation to glance again towards young Bedwyr. It was the merest flicker of movement, quickly controlled, but it verified what I had thought before. Unfortunately, his companions were less disciplined than he, because they all looked at the boy, too, so obviously that even Bedwyr noticed their interest. I heard him start to speak and swung abruptly around to cut him short.
"Why are—?"
"Be quiet, boy!" Bedwyr's eyes flew wide with shock at the harshness of my voice. I stood motionless, my back to the others, until I had his eyes on mine, and then I winked at him before continuing in the same, harsh tones. "Are you mad? How dare you raise your voice when I have guaranteed no interruption? Get you into my tent immediately and stay there until I send for you. Move!"
The poor lad took one step backward, his confusion and embarrassment taking him visibly to the edge of tears, and then he drew himself together, squared his shoulders, turned smartly about and marched into my tent, closing the flaps behind him.
I swung back to the others. "You may continue, and no one will interrupt you further. You were speaking of Carthac. " I moved my eyes slowly around my men, making no attempt to disguise the anger in them. The source of my anger, however, was the intolerable hubris of what I was listening to. When my gaze came back to him, Retorix was watching me closely, his eyes boring into mine, and I wondered if I had managed to disguise my recognition of his interest in Bedwyr—Arthur, as he believed the boy to be.
Finally he nodded, cleared his throat and continued speaking. "Cardiac's father was Mor, youngest brother to Uric Pendragon, father of Uther. Carthac has requested, and enlisted, the aid of Peter Ironhair to help him claim his kingship, and so Ironhair is here in Cambria. Your presence, on the other hand, is unsolicited by anyone. Dergyll ap Griffyd, with whom you once had dealings, is dead, his so called kingship taken by the usurper Uderic, who is no friend of yours. Your army therefore stands as an invading force, a status both amplified and verified by the fact that none but a few of the Pendragon have joined you. They seek no help from you in settling their affairs. In fact, they believe themselves to be quite capable of resolving their differences without your interference. " Again he paused, gathering his thoughts before proceeding, and as he did so I tried to empty my mind of his reference to Uderic's being a usurper. Ironhair would say so, of course, but Uderic had won his tide in battle, leading his people in their war against Cardiac's attempt at usurpation. Retorix spoke again.