Uther Pendragon was now a very different person from the carefree boy who had dashed into the room a half-hour earlier. Then the biggest and most immediate problem in his mind had been the need to find a perfect hiding place. Now he had been changed forever and had aged immeasurably. Now he was fighting to accept, and to adjust to, the awareness that his own beloved mother was afraid of him, afraid of some dark side of him, some elemental thing that lay imbedded in his very nature, some aspect of his being that she had learned to fear and distrust long before he was born, when she herself was a young girl, not many years older than he was now. Whatever it was, that thing had terrified her thoroughly, enough to alter her lifelong determination to mother an entire brood of children.
Uther discovered that he had no wish to know what that thing was, for if it had the power to terrify his mother, he knew it would frighten him beyond bearing. He hated the thought that his mother might be afraid of him, but he hated even more the suspicion that she might distrust him in some basic, formless way. He knew she loved him. He had heard his grandfather say that her smile lit up the room whenever she set eyes on him, and he knew that was true because he had seen it with his own eyes. How, then, could she be afraid of him? What was there in him, in his very nature, that could make even his mother fear him?
That was a question Uther Pendragon would never be able to answer, for he could never know that what his Roman-bred mother feared lay not within him, but in the very nature of his Celtic people.
Chapter TWO
Garreth Whistler might never have heard the sound had he not been in love. As it was, his mind was so full of thoughts of the woman called Laminda and the risk he was taking, meeting her in broad daylight with her husband close by that he was temporarily incapable of whistling, and he strode quietly across the meadow surrounding the King's House, hearing only the sound of his own feet swishing through the long grass that awaited the scythe. As he neared the ancient stone-built cattle byre beneath the large oak tree on the southeast corner of the King's Holding, the portion of land allocated to the King by his people for his living, he hesitated, wondering which of two possible routes might offer him the best chance of reaching his assignation unseen. And in that moment of utter stillness he heard a stifled whimper coming from the ruined building.
When he stuck his head around the corner and saw the tear streaked, dirt smeared face of a small boy who huddled against the wall there, wrapped as nearly into a ball as he could achieve, his arms clasped around his upraised knees and his shins oozing blood, Garreth experienced a lucid moment of decision that would surprise him later when he considered what it might have cost him. He recognized the child, saw his misery, in the same instant had a vision of Laminda amorously awaiting him—and he chose immediately to comfort the boy.
Uther? Is that you? What's wrong, lad?"
Uther's eyes flew wide, and his seven-year-old heart quailed as he saw the hero who towered over him. Garreth Whistler was his grand- lather Ullic's greatest champion, a mighty warrior whom no one could best with sword or battle-axe, and who could wrestle and beat any other two of King Ullic's Pendragon warriors at any time. Uther was appalled to think that this man, of all men, should be the one to find him cringing and cowering, bawling like a baby and girlishly nursing his hurts. But Garreth Whistler had already propped his shield and his two-headed iron axe in a corner and was now down on one knee in front of him, gently pulling his arms away to uncover the lacerated shin bone that still oozed blood. As he looked at the swollen bruise and the blood that trickled from its centre, the big warrior's frown deepened and his long white moustaches seemed to bristle.
"What did this, a stone?" The child shook his head, gulping. "What then? A stick?" Another shake of the head. "Did you fall? Let's have a look." He raised the boy's leg and peered at the abrasion closely. "It's a cut, a straight edge. Looks like a blow. You didn't hit anything, something hit you." He paused and glanced up at the boy's face. "Something like a leather-soled boot?"
Uther nodded miserably.
"Who?"
"Ivor."
"Ivor? Cross-Eyed Ivor?" Again the child nodded. "But he must be, what, three years older than you? He's twice your size." Uther said nothing.
Garreth sighed and braced himself with one hand, then twisted down and around to sit beside the boy, adjusting his short, wide- bladed sword so that it lay comfortably on the ground alongside his thigh before settling his back against the rough stone wall.
"Well," he said, "I've always got time for a good story, and I suspect you have one to tell. So let's start right at the beginning— tell me why a great lump like Cross-Eyed Ivor would want to kick a bright little fellow like you."
The boy sat silent for a while, staring down at the ground, and Garreth made no effort to speak, allowing the silence to stretch until it became clear that the boy would not break it. When he felt it had been long enough, he moved to rise again, speaking as though to himself.
"Well, if you don't want to talk, I'll be on my way, then, and leave you to your sorrows—"
"No!" The boy was evidently so shocked at his own vehemence that he sat blinking at his temerity in using such a tone when addressing the King's Champion.
Garreth ignored the look. "No? Does that mean you want me to stay?"
"Yes."
"Fine, then I'll stay a little longer, but what good will that do if you won't talk to me?"
"I'll talk to you." The words were barely more than a whisper.
"Then why don't you start by telling me why Cross-Eyed Ivor kicked you." Before the boy could even begin to respond, Garreth held up his hand, palm outward, to silence him. "Wait, I want you to listen to me carefully first, and take note of what I have to say. Will you do that?"
The boy nodded, mute.
"Good. Now you are probably thinking that I won't believe what you tell me and thinking, too, that you will be shaming yourself by even talking about it . . . and you might even be thinking that I'll think you are making everything up. Are you? Is that what you're thinking?"
"N-no."
"Are you sure about that? You don't sound very sure."
No, I'm sure." The boy's voice was growing stronger and more confident.
"Well, I'm very glad to know that, because here is what is really in my mind. You are cut and bleeding, and I can see plainly that someone has been beating you . . . beating you fairly thoroughly. Even before you told me who it was, I knew it must have been someone older and bigger than you are, because I know you are your father's son and your grandfather's pride and joy, and I know you would never stand still and allow anyone to do that to you unless he was much bigger and older than you are. Am I correct?"
Uther nodded hesitantly, his eyes wide with amazement at hearing praise and encouragement where he had expected scorn.
"I knew it. And it was only one boy, wasn't it? It was only cross-Eyed Ivor who hit you?" The boy nodded again, but this lime his eyes remained cast down, and Garreth went after the information he suspected would be there. "Am I correct? Or were there others there? Were there others with him?"
This time the nod of Uther's head was very small.
"Aha! And did any of the others hit you?"
"No, only Ivor. But they watched, and laughed."
"Why? Why were they tormenting you?"
"They don't like me."
"Well, I don't know about that. . . For all we know, they might be afraid to show Ivor what they really think of him, in case he turns on them. He's a big strong clod, isn't he?" The boy nodded, and Garreth tilted his head in agreement. "Yes, well, it wouldn't be the first time people have ganged up on someone else, someone smaller than they are, to protect themselves from being tormented by a big strong clod of a bully." Garreth Whistler let that sink home for a few moments and then continued. "Why were they tormenting you, anyway, do you know? Did they tell you?"