Camulod Chronicles Book 8 - Clothar the Frank by Jack Whyte Read Free Book Online Page A

notwithstanding that I could not name his name, and as my companions stood with lowered heads, just beginning to stir and shuffle with impatience, I cleared my throat and spoke, trusting my instincts.
    "We know not who you are, or were, nor do we know what God or gods you cherished. We know not how you lived, or how you died; how long you knew this place, or whence you came. We only know we found your bones awaiting us, reminding us that all men come to death. Rest you in peace here, now, surrounded by the beauty of this hidden place, and may none disturb your bed from this day forth. Fare well, wheresoever your spirit roams."
    We arrived back at Glastonbury at noon the following day, having met or seen no living soul on our journey, and as we approached, the anchorites began to gather in silence to watch us. The same old man was there at their head, but this time as I drew near he watched me keenly, his eyes slitted, and I knew he knew me now.
    I dismounted in front of him and held out the rope reins of his garron. "Safely returned," I said. "These old shanks are grateful for your generosity in sharing."
    Another man stepped forward to take the reins, and the old leader nodded.
    "You are the Frank," he said.
    "I am. And you are Declan." The name had come to me as he spoke. "How do you know me now, but not before?"
    "It was the horse. I saw you in the way you sat as you came in. Before, when you arrived, I had not thought to see you, so did not. I have something for you."
    "Something for me? How could you have anything for me?"
    "Come you." I followed him, waving to my men to stay where they were. The old man made no attempt to speak again and I went with him in silence until we reached one of the simple huts surrounding the stone ecclesia, where he stooped to enter the low doorway.
    "The building looks well," I said, gazing up at the stone church and feeling the need to say something, hearing the banality of my words as they emerged. "Is God still worshipped here?"
    Declan stopped on the threshold of his hut and looked back at me over his shoulder as though I had broken wind. "It is His house," he said. "Where else would men worship Him? Come."
    Feeling foolish, I bent to follow him into the tiny room that was even barer than Merlyn's hut had been, and so low that I had to stand bent over. It was dark in there, and smelled of straw, and the old man moved directly to the rough-edged hole in the wall that served as a window, where he picked up a flat, square wooden box a handspan long and held it out to me.
    "What is it?" I asked, taking it and holding it up to the light from the window. It was well made and had been richly polished once, but years of sitting in that window space, open to whatever weather prevailed, had deprived it of its luster, leaving only a fragmented pattern of flecks of ancient varnish, cracked and peeled.
    "It is yours," Declan said. "See for yourself."
    I replaced it on the window ledge and opened the hinged lid, which squeaked in protest. Inside, lying on a hard, textured bed of what might once have been brushed leather, was a pair of blackened, tarnished Roman spurs, their straps hardened to the consistency of wood, cracked and fissured by time. I lifted them out, one in each hand, and felt their solid, heavy weight. Blackened as they were by the years and lack of use, their delicate engravings were invisible, but I knew them well. I had been with Arthur when we found them among the rubble of a ruined house close to the ancient Roman fortress of Deva, far to the north and west of Camulod. The engravings explained that these were the ceremonial spurs of Petrus Trebonius Cinna, a senior officer of Equestrian rank, serving in the Twentieth Legion, the Valeria Victrix, that had served long and honorably here in Britain since the days of the early Caesars. They must have lain where we found them for hundreds of years, for the decorative arch of their ancient leather straps bore the insignia of Claudius