Chapter 5

 

Marc had to wait two weeks before he woke to a promising sky.

This would be the day.

“Meet me here at midday,” he told Wolf as they dressed. “I have something to show you.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Wolf said, smirking.

Marc winked at him. “Finish your work by then. It’s a bit of a walk.” He kissed Wolf and left for the armory.

Late every autumn, he oiled the armor for winter storage. In spring, he unwound the wool from each piece and wiped away the excess oil, rubbing it into metal fittings and leather until everything shone. He’d been working in peace for two hours when the shouting arose. He stopped his polishing and listened.

Boys’ voices. If he wasn’t mistaken…yes: his grandsons.

Sighing, he set aside his oily cloth and stepped outside.

Cai was dragging Arthur by his shirt toward the armory. The younger boy struggled as others stopped working to watch them scuffle past.

“Cease this!” Marc snapped.

Cai shoved Arthur forward. “Show grandfather!”

“Show me what?”

Arthur’s jaw had a mutinous set. But at Marc’s hard stare, he pushed up his sleeve.

Marc leaned in close. “Is that…?”

The boy’s arm had ink on it. He rubbed his thumb across it, but the blue-black markings didn’t smear. He straightened, his gut sinking.

“Did you use Dafydd’s ink?”

Arthur nodded.

“Speak.”

“Yes, sir.”

He’d known as soon as he saw the distinctive color. The figure looked vaguely animal. It had four legs, a head, and a tail, at any rate. “Why?”

He didn’t get an answer. At that moment, Uthyr rounded the armory, trailed by Bedwyr. The man’s dark eyes were trained on Arthur.

“My son tells me you have something to show me.”

Arthur’s eyes had grown wide. “I didn’t—”

“Show me,” Uthyr said.

Slowly, Arthur bared his arm again. Uthyr performed the same test Marc had, then straightened with a grim set to his mouth.

“When?”

Arthur’s bravado was failing him. “Last night,” he croaked.

“You stole Dafydd’s ink to do this?”

“I borrowed some.”

“You borrowed some?” Uthyr’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “You mean that you can give it back to him?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you understand what these markings on our bodies mean?”

“They’re for the brave,” Arthur said.

Or the reckless, Marc thought.

“They are for the tested,” Uthyr said. “The initiated. They are not for the untried. And you, my boy, have not yet been tried. Do you see how this is an insult to those who have?”

Arthur let his sleeve fall. “Yes, Master Uthyr.”

Marc’s hand itched to touch the boy’s shoulder, to give him some sort of anchor, but he fought the urge. Arthur must learn. He didn’t have the excuse of having grown up elsewhere, of not knowing. These were his people—they’d known him nearly from birth—and he must answer for his actions.

“You will apologize to Dafydd for your theft and repay him in any manner he decides,” Uthyr said. “You will apologize to the community for your insult. And when it comes time for you to be tested…” Uthyr’s eyes flashed like flint. “You had better hope I don’t find you lacking.”

Arthur looked near tears. “Yes, sir.”

“Go find your father.”

“Ah, he’s over to Mother Mabyn’s today,” Marc put in quietly. “Won’t return until this evening.”

Uthyr nodded. “Your mother, then, Arthur. I dare say you’ll wish your father were in the village today.”

When Arthur turned for the smithy, Uthyr gestured to the other two boys.

“To the training yard, both of you. I want to see that shield work when I find you.”

Cai and Bedwyr nodded and left.

Uthyr watched them go. Marc lifted his chin, braced himself. When Uthyr turned to him, he did so with a deep breath and long exhalation.

“He’s a spirited one, your Arthur.”

“He is. I’m sorry for this.”

“You didn’t do it. The lad will learn.” Uthyr shrugged. “He’ll have to, won’t he?”

“Yes.”

Uthyr shook his head and, to Marc’s surprise, smirked. “I tattooed myself at his age, you know.”

“Did you?”

“Of course, I’d been in a skirmish by then.”

Of course he had.

“I wasn’t officially supposed to be there, but when you’re champing at the bit to fight…” He gave Marc a conspiratorial look. “I followed the men and waited until the clash had begun to show myself. That way they couldn’t send me away.”

“Good gods.”

Uthyr snorted. “Yes, they were. I lived, brat though I was. And so I thought I deserved my first ink.” He turned a wry eye to Marc. “My father did not. He refused me the ceremony. So…I did it myself.”

Marc scanned Uthyr’s arms for the mark.

He waved it away. “It was even more poorly done than Arthur’s. Dafydd was kind enough to cover it when my turn finally came.”

“Arthur should be so fortunate.”

Uthyr gave him a long look. “He is. He’s strong and willful, and I can shape both. Between you and me, I can hardly wait.”

Good gods, indeed.

Marc cleared his throat. “I had planned to leave with Wolf this afternoon, for a few days—”

“So go,” Uthyr said.

“I suppose we should be here to witness the apologies.”

The other man waved that off as well. “He’ll have plenty of eyes on him, and I imagine his mother will ensure his words are thorough and heartfelt.”

“I’m certain of it,” Marc said. He didn’t envy Arthur the tongue-lashing he’d get from Britte soon. “I’ll see you in a few days, then.”

“Take your time, Marcus Roman.” Uthyr stretched his powerful shoulders. “Just know that while you’re traipsing about the countryside, I’ll be shaping your grandsons into true Cambrian warriors.”

Marc couldn’t keep the sour twist from his mouth, and Uthyr caught it.

With a knowing chuckle, he sauntered toward the training yard and his two newest charges. “For Cymru!”

Marc saluted Uthyr’s back, though not in a strictly official sort of way.

 

* * *

 

Wolf found the lad on the far side of the hill, hunched against a rock.

Arthur had come to the smithy not long before, his face so pale his freckles stood out. Britte had touched a palm to his forehead, checking for fever, before he’d confessed he wasn’t ill.

After two minutes of mumbling and the revelation of one terribly executed tattoo, he’d borne a storm of reprimand such as only Britte could summon. Even Wolf’s ears had rung with it. As soon as she’d thrown her hands up and demanded what she was to do with him, Arthur had fled.

He looked small next to the stone, and smaller still for the way he hugged his bony knees to his chest. He flinched at the scuff of Wolf’s boots on the path, but he didn’t run. Wolf settled beside him with a groan. Why couldn’t the men in his life brood on benches?

“Mama’s angry.”

“She is.”

“Papa will be, too.”

“I imagine so.”

“I’m sorry, Grandpapa. For insulting everyone. I’m sorry for dishonoring you.”

He nodded. “Apology accepted. That’s not what I want to talk to you about, though.”

“It’s not?”

Wolf shook his head. He looked out over the surrounding peaks. He’d thought Arthur was too young for this conversation. He’d been wrong. “You know that I knew your grandfather when we were lads?”

“Yes. He was an orphan. Old Master Matthias adopted him.”

“He did.”

“And you lived on a farm nearby.”

“That’s right. I met Marcus when I was only seven, and he was ten. He taught me how to fish.”

“To escape his work,” Arthur said with a small smile.

“Just so. He taught me a lot of things, your grandfather. How to catch squirrels. How to skin them. How to build a fire to roast them. He seemed to know everything, and I looked up to him for it.” He glanced down at Arthur. “He was very important to me. I loved him.”

Arthur was watching him intently. “Like a brother?”

Wolf settled an arm around his shoulders. “No, son. Stronger than that. And it grew stronger and stronger every year. By the time I was fourteen, I was in love with him.”

“Oh.” Arthur’s eyes skittered away briefly before flitting back.

“Yes, oh. He didn’t know it, and I didn’t know what to do about it. Mostly, I punched him.”

Arthur grinned.

“Your tattoo is a dragon, isn’t it?”

The boy blinked. “Yes,” he said, wary again.

Wolf nodded. “When I saw it, I thought perhaps you’d done it to impress Master Uthyr. Just as I thought you’d designed that extraordinary dagger to impress Master Uthyr.” He squeezed Arthur’s shoulder. “But you didn’t do those things for Uthyr, did you?”

Arthur looked at him for a long moment, his brow knit. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then finally said, “No, sir.”

“Who did you do them for?”

The lad swallowed, then whispered, “Bedwyr.”

Wolf gave him a smile. “I know, lad. I only wanted you to say it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to know you can talk to me about it. Do you admire Bedwyr?”

“Yes.”

“Do you feel more than admiration?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He looked out over the hills, the tops of his ears reddening on a blush. “What if he never likes me the same way?”

“He may not.” When Arthur looked back to him, worry etched on his face, Wolf shrugged. “I feel very fortunate that your Grandfather Marcus did, after he came home. Whatever happens, you can still be a good friend to Bedwyr. You can learn to be a fierce fighter who will stand alongside him in a skirmish. And you can learn to be a good man who will back him at home, too.”

“I suppose so.”

“Train your attentions to being the best man you can be, and the best friend. Those things are in your control. Very little else in the world will be. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Grandpapa.”

“Do you have any questions just now?”

Arthur bit his lip. “Do you worry when Grandfather leaves the village?”

Wolf grinned. “Yes. He left home for the army fifty years ago, and I’m sorry to say that it doesn’t get any easier.”

“That’s too bad.”

“No, it’s just right. It means your heart is working as it should.”

Arthur rubbed a fist against his chest. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Wolf chuckled and pulled Arthur against him. “When it hurts most, it’s working hardest.”

The boy hugged him tightly with his wiry arms, and Wolf realized he hadn’t done that in some time. He kissed Arthur’s bright hair. It would look like polished copper come midsummer.

“I need to go tell Master Dafydd what I did,” Arthur said.

“Do you want me to come along?”

Arthur considered that for a moment before shaking his head. “No. I’ll do it myself.”

“Good lad. You make me proud, you know.”

“Really?”

“Truly.”

He watched the boy walk back toward the village, unable to say exactly what had formed the unseen cord between them. It had taken hold early, some night when he’d walked the restless babe to soothe him back to sleep, and it tugged at him now with every step Arthur took, with every clench of his determined young fists.

He wished he could pave a smooth road for the lad, but knew that was neither possible nor rational. Even if he’d been able to give him such a highway through life, Arthur wouldn’t stay on it. At some point, he would inevitably cut his own path.

With any luck, he wouldn’t be alone when he did so.