The Hallowed Isle Book Four Read Free Page A

“He is old indeed, and not much time is left to him. Hence this embassy. When I came before, we offered you alliance. Now I come to ask for the help you swore to give. Riothamus is dying, my lord, but Chlodovechus of the Franks is in the flower of his age, seeking to extend the Frankishlands in the north, while Alaric II leads the Visigoths of Tolosa against us in the south.
    â€œThe only son of Riothamus, Daniel Dremrud, was killed some years ago, fighting in the German lands. My lord’s grandsons intrigue against each other—” He cast a tired glance at a dark young man who stood glowering among the warriors who had escorted him into the hall.
    â€œBudic, there, is one of them. Five years ago, he and his brother Maxentius attacked Civitas Aquilonia in the south of Armorica, to which they had a claim from their mother’s father. Now Budic’s brother has expelled him in turn. He hopes you will give him an army with which to take it back again.”
    â€œThen Riothamus is not asking my support for Budic as his heir?” asked Artor.
    â€œWe are Romans,” Rutilius said simply: “And the Empire has always prospered when we sought heirs not of the body but of the spirit. Well, I know that it is so—does not my own son cleave to you before his own kin?”
    He looked past Artor to Betiver, who flushed painfully, but he was smiling. He gestured towards Artor’s mantle. “And I see that you, my lord, also hold to the spirit of Rome—so you will understand.”
    â€œWhat?” Artor said into the silence. “What does he wish of me?”
    â€œYou will make up your own mind whether to give aid to Budic in Aquilonia—but Riothamus judges neither of his grandsons of the stature to defend Gallia. The Emperor of the East is far away, and an Ostrogoth rules in Rome. The last strength of the West lies here, lord, in Britannia, where you have driven out the wild Irish and set the Saxon beneath your heel. What will your soldiers do now?”
    There was a little stir among the watching warriors as Rutilius looked around.
    â€œBring them to Gallia, princeps , and Riothamus will make you his heir. Your fame is great in Armorica, and the grandsons of the men who followed Maximian will flock to your standard. Come to our aid, my lord Artor, and we will make you Emperor!”
    The old dream reborn! Struggling to keep his face impassive,Artor sat back in his chair, the ghosts of Magnentius and Maximian, who had led the legions of Britannia to fight for the Empire, whispering in his ear. Constantine himself had been acclaimed in Eboracum before marching south to his destiny. Aegidius and his son Syagrius had tried to restore the Western Empire in Gallia, but without the resources of Britannia they could not endure. His foster-father Caius Turpilius had brought him up on these tales.
    But with the power of Britannia and the blessing of Riothamus behind him, Artor might well succeed where no other man could. He had already succeeded in uniting Britannia, which neither Vitalinus nor Ambrosius nor Uthir had been able to do. Was it for this that he had been healed of his injury? He blinked, dazzled at the prospect. Oh, what a noble dream!
    â€œMy lord?” said a voice close by, and Artor forced his attention to the present once more.
    â€œThis is . . . an unexpected . . . offer,” he managed to say. “It will require careful thought and discussion.”
    â€œOf course,” answered Rutilius.
    â€œYou are my guest, and have scarcely tasted our hospitality,” the king said in a more normal tone. “Let Betiver be my deputy, and do his duty to both of us in arranging for your lodging. Budic shall be our guest as well. Whatever the future may hold, I am still king in Britannia, and there are men waiting whose petitions I must hear.”
    Medraut ran his hand up the kitchen girl’s leg beneath her skirts and pulled her back to the bed.