by C. M. Gray
'Go with God, Uther Pendragon, and I pray that the spirits may also be with you through this day. It seems your tasks among us may never be complete. I fear your people ask too much of you.' With a hand covering her mouth to stifle a sob, the Abbess stepped back into the company of the weeping nuns.
Armour was attached to the King; greaves for his legs and a breastplate to cover his chest. Over this was placed the heavy wool cloak that was tied in place around his body to protect him from the rain and also to shield the ropes that held him in place. The tribesmen all mounted, and in a final gesture, Sir Ector produced a golden crown from a bag set behind his saddle and tugged it firmly into place upon his King's lolling head. Preparations complete, he finally looked across to the Abbess.
'I am truly sorry, Morgana, but you know this is Merlyn's doing and not mine. I would let him die with dignity, here with you, but Merlyn says that he has communed with the spirits, and they have called for the King to lead us in battle one final time. You know I cannot argue with either the spirits or the Druid.' Without waiting for a reply, he kicked his horse into motion, and the five mounted men clattered out into a cold grey dawn, the sound of their departure disturbing a host of crows into flight, the birds rising like winged smoke from an old dead elm to circle raucously above them.
The Abbess walked to the gateway and watched the riders go, four men moving at a trot, whilst the fifth bounced from side to side, appearing stiff and ungainly as they rounded the Tor and passed the muddy track that led up to holy Avalon.
'Close the gates.' She waved impatiently, and two nuns rushed to do her bidding, dragging the large, heavy gates closed with an echoing boom, shutting out the world of man.
One of the nuns stepped forward. 'Mother, we must pray for the King. Our Lord God shall cast his light of protection over…' The Abbess held up a hand as the rest of the nuns gathered around her expectantly.
'Sisters, you must indeed pray for our King, assemble in the chapel. However, I shall make my own preparations and then retire to my chambers and pray alone.' She clapped her hands, and the nuns moved off into the dark Abbey while the Abbess headed towards a separate doorway, intent upon devotions of her own.
His body did not feel his own. Shapes and sounds drifted to him as if through a fog. It felt as if he were constantly falling, turning around and around, yet never landing nor coming into contact with the ground, just a never-ending drop where he spun and spun yet felt no need to scream, it was as if he were watching from afar. The consciousness of Uther Pendragon sat well behind the clouded eyes letting the sounds of cheering, calling and crying wash around him; it was all a dream that he would either awake from and laugh at, the absurdity of it all… or, perhaps, he may never wake again, it mattered not to him.
'Is he dead?'
'No, he is not dead.' Sir Ector glared around, spat with distaste and then raised his voice above the murmuring of the gathering crowd. 'Uther Pendragon lives and has come to lead us to victory against the Saxons.' Standing up in his saddle, he shouted out above the heads of the gathered tribesmen, 'Step aside and make way for your King.' The growing huddle of battered warriors moved reluctantly to either side as Sir Ector, and his men led the horse carrying Uther Pendragon through their ranks and towards the cluster of pavilions set at the highest point on the hill. Wiping a sheen of wetness from his face, Sir Ector glanced up at the blue and white encampment on the hill above them, the wet pennons upon the pavilions as limp and lifeless as the gathered tribes.
There was less mud on the higher ground, but a direct route up the slope would mean more chance that the King might fall, and that could not be allowed to happen. He guided his charge towards a gentler, more winding path upward and they plodded on, trailing warriors that were keen to see the return of their King. Sir Ector looked back at the men traipsing after them through the mud. They were filthy and wore a ragtag assortment of armour, crests, and colours. Each man carried either a bow, a sword, or the majority, a spear; none walked unarmed. They were tired and disheartened, but not yet defeated. He realised that the sight of their King had already sent an energy amongst them that he had not seen for many long days. Glancing up he saw that even more men and women were running in from the outer shelters as news that the King had returned reached them and still more from the far woodland where those less fortunate had been sheltering. He glanced across at the white, unconscious Uther Pendragon as he swayed and rocked with the movement of the horse and wondered, not for the first time, what magic the Druid was about to unleash.
It was a terrible thing to be doing to a King, to the man he had stood beside, fought beside, eaten and laughed beside as he had risen from being a snotty kid with a big sword to the unifier of the tribes after his brother had died. The fact that Uther had been raised in an Iceni village was also a point of honour of course. As leader of the now landless Iceni, since the Saxons had forced the tribe to leave their ancestral lands, Ector knew his place was beside the King. He had known it was his place to bring him back if anyone was going to do it, but it hurt him to see the man, his friend, his King dying like this. To see him struck down, so close to death and yet not crossing into the Shadowland to be with those who had passed before him, it was not right, it was beyond his understanding, but he knew it was not right.
At the top of the hill, men had begun emerging from the pavilions, drawn by the commotion that the King's entrance had caused. As yet, he couldn't see the Druid, but he knew he would be there. They moved on.
It didn't take long to get to the top and more level ground, and as soon as they reached it, Sir Ector let out a sigh of relief that his King hadn't fallen backwards into the mud on the climb up. He tugged on the reins of Uther's horse so that it drew alongside him.
'Sire,' he hissed, trying to keep his voice from carrying. 'Uther… wake. Spirits help you, but wake Sire.' The King continued to sway in his saddle either asleep or dead; it was hard to tell which. Sir Ector muttered an oath and tugged on the reins again as his horse stepped forward. Three men had moved away from the group at the pavilions. They were walking towards them; the youngest already several strides in front of the others. Sir Ector saw the smile of joy turn to a frown of worry. The young man broke into a run and took the bridle of Uther's horse as soon as he reached them.
'Father? Oh, God, what have they done to you, Father?' He glared across at Sir Ector.
'My Lord, you were instructed to…' But the words died on his lips as the other two men arrived. Releasing the reins, Sir Ector sat taller in the saddle, fearing that he may now have displeased both the future King and also the Druid. Yet as he approached, the Druid was smiling, nodding at him.
'Well met, Sir Ector. Fear not, you have done well.' The old Druid moved forward, still smiling at them all warmly as if Uther were fit and well and strong enough to lead a horde of warriors against the whole Saxon nation. Sir Ector glanced at the King, just to be sure he was still the same dying man he had dragged from his death bed, and indeed, with eyes closed and lolling in the saddle, Uther still appeared to be far more dead than alive. The horse shifted, and Uther's head rolled alarmingly.
'Father! You… help me get him down.' The young man, aided by two warriors began to disentangle the King from his mount, while around them, several hundred tribesmen watched in silence. The only man who appeared delighted by the whole spectacle was Merlyn.
'Did you have any trouble at the Abbey, Sir Ector?' enquired Merlyn as Uther's hands were being untied. The King swayed backwards, but Sir Ector quickly reached across and held him upright again.
'No, Merlyn. All was as you said it would be.'
'And Morgana… the Abbess, how is she, did she delay you?'
'She was most vexed at us for retrieving the King,' Sir Ector stared into Merlyn's blue eyes – 'Most vexed indeed, but that was the whole of it.' Warriors were untying Uther's feet from the stirrups, and it was all Sir Ector could do to hold onto the King until he could be lowered gently to the ground.
'No, the Ki
ng must stand.' Merlyn moved forward as the horses were led away and Sir Ector dismounted.
'My Lord Druid. The King, my father, cannot stand. Indeed, we still pray for some sign that he still lives. I shall want the reason and truth behind this or…'
'Patience Arthur. Have a little faith and find some patience. Believe in your father because he needs you now as much or possibly more than he has never needed you before.' The old Druid, white robes flapping in the breeze and long, grey hair wet and plastered to his scalp, approached the sad King as he slumped between the two tribesmen. Passing his staff to Arthur, he reached out, cupped the King's head between his two palms and then studied the King's face closely. He pressed his forehead against the King's.
'Wake up, Uther. It is time to come back and live in the world of man one last time; I'm sorry, old friend, but you must… awaken.'
As the Druid stepped back, Uther Pendragon opened his eyes, shook the two guards away groggily as if unsure how they came to be holding him and gazed about at the gathered men. A wave of murmurs and cries travelled back amongst the crowd until after just moments, cries of 'the King, the King', almost became deafening.
Merlyn stepped forward, took Uther's shoulders, and stared into the King's eyes once again. 'Welcome back Sire. I think it may be best if we had a little talk.'
Chapter 2
Alone Amongst Friends
Uther sat hunched over a bowl of steaming broth, slowly spooning the rich mixture into his mouth, a look of tired contentment upon his face. He was listening with studied interest to Arthur as his son spoke of the months he had been away, of all the raids and skirmishes, and of the preparations they were making before meeting the main Saxon force in the coming days. Uther appeared not to notice, or was perhaps merely unconcerned as much of the broth spilt and soaked through his beard and onto the rough wood of the table in front of him. Around the pavilion, several others, including Merlyn, were content just to observe and witness their King's improving condition.
'The Saxons have been pushing us father. Our forces number less than half that they were a year ago, and yet the Saxon forces continue to grow. Angles are now crossing the water to join them, and the Saxons, under Octa, begin to scorn us as they have never done before.'
Arthur was a serious and earnest young man of just fourteen summers and big for his age. Training with weapons since he was a child had given him broad shoulders and a well-muscled physique. He had the strong jaw and serious nature of his father, but also the soft eyes and understanding nature of his mother, he would make a good King. As he spoke, he frequently glanced across to Merlyn or Sir Ector to confirm his words.
'Octa?' Uther lowered the wooden spoon and glanced from Arthur to the old Druid.
'Octa leads the Saxons here and is the son of a man you once knew upon the battlefield, a certain Hengist.' Merlyn motioned for Arthur to continue his explanation, which the boy seemed eager to do.
'Sir Ector has told me of the day you killed Hengist's brother, Horsa; maybe it will be me that kills Octa?' Uther looked at his son, shrugged and returned to his broth. He and Arthur weren't close, a situation that nobody could comprehend and everyone, including his son, blamed entirely upon Uther. From the moment of his birth, Arthur had lived within the household of Sir Ector, primarily to learn his martial skills, but within Sir Ector's household, he had also been under the direct control and tutelage of Merlyn in preparation for the demanding burden of becoming High King of all the tribes, the Pendragon.
Among the Britons, the placing of a son within another household at an early age was common practice. It was thought it would help to unite the tribes, however, to send a child away at birth was totally unheard of. Little reason had been given for this arrangement, yet Uther had apparently handed the squalling infant into Merlyn's care the very same day Arthur drew his first breath. Because of this distance, Uther had missed much in his son's development, and he was now enjoying the young man's company as he explained a few of the changes in relations with the Saxons that had taken place since Uther had fallen ill, a little more than a year before.
Arthur continued. 'Octa and his forces await us at Valerum, just two days march from where we gather the tribes here. Soon we will march and, God willing, we will finally push them back to the eastern coast.'
'God willing, my son, God willing indeed.' Joseph, the chubby priest who was Arthur's adviser, and very much his shadow, leant forward and patted the boy's shoulder beaming around at everyone. Uther glared at him, and the priest sat back, the smile dropping from his face. Arthur didn't notice the exchange; he was too flushed and excited. 'More men join us daily and now that you have returned to lead us, even more shall come. I am even more assured that we shall treat the Saxons to a stinging defeat.' Arthur smiled around at the assembled warriors, chiefs and elders seeking confirmation of his words. Uther could see that the men were all fond of his son, Sir Ector clapped the boy on the shoulder and calls of agreement came from several others including the simpering priest.
'Our King must rest,' announced Merlyn, using his staff to pull himself up onto his feet.
But Uther shook his head. 'I think I have rested long enough; it is time for me to talk to our men and women.' He stood and then reached out for support as he swayed on his feet.
'There will be time for that tomorrow, Sire,' said Merlyn, looking from Uther to the men, who were all showing signs of concern for their so recently returned King. 'Please, I would ask you all to leave us. I will talk with our King and then he will, indeed, rest.' Before Uther could say anything, Sir Ector took hold of Arthur's arm and led him from the pavilion talking quietly to him, with the priest skipping quickly behind them trying to keep up. The others followed mutely, several offering tidings and reassurances to Uther as they left.
When they had all gone, Merlyn turned once more to Uther. 'Sit down, Uther. You are newly awoken from what I can only imagine has been a long and weary sleep and of course, you are eager to catch up. However, your body is still weak. Let me explain a few things to you… sit, sit.' He gestured to the bench and Uther sank down, pushing the remains of his meal aside and leaned heavily on the table.
'Uther, you have been deathly sick, this I do not need to explain to you. You took a bad wound just after Beltane of last year. You were hunting for boar as I recall.' Merlyn shook his head at the absurdity of the incident. 'As you convalesced, the fevers took you and death almost claimed you, however, because of the agreement that was reached with the spirits when you fought and killed Horsa, we have a little…' - he waved his hands absently in the air and his eyes flared a little as he sought the correct words - '… we had a little opportunity to bend the rules.'
'Bend the rules… bend which rules?'
'Bend the rules of life and death, my friend.' The old Druid waved his hands for Uther to sit still and listen.
'Your son is very nearly ready to take the crown and an extremely fine leader he will become, of this I have no doubt. But this Octa has become somewhat of a problem and Arthur is not yet ready for him. Sir Ector and the others have done their best, but…' - he raised his hands gave a small look of despair - 'we have been losing too many men Uther. We are being pushed back towards the western coast. The Saxons and now the Angles take our lands and our people and make them their own, the tribes of Britain are a dying people.'
'What rules have been bent, Merlyn, what have you done to me?'
'Done to you? Uther, you walk, talk and breathe, whatever it is that I have… done to you, you might be a little grateful, hmm, don't you think?'
Uther slowly shook his head. 'I am never sure when I should be grateful to you, old man. You have played with me all of my life, and I'm sure that any agreements reached with the spirits were not done with my interests at heart, and they were certainly done without any approval from me. Do I not have any say in matters?' Uther rubbed at his eyes and cast a glance at the sleeping pallet. 'I am, after all, the King.' Then a thought struck him, and he turned back to the Druid.
'If I am so badly needed at this time, should I not reclaim Excalibur? If I carry that blade, then surely I would stand an even greater chance of leading our men in victory.' He watched Merlyn intently, his hopes of seeing the blade once more rising as he thought the Druid was in truth contemplating its return. However, Merlyn's face broke into a grin, and he shook a finger at Uther.
'You have carried the sword Excalibur, now it waits for another to wield it, perhaps it shall be your son, Arthur, perhaps another, we have yet to see. But you, Uther, you will never carry that blade again. I shall leave you to rest in a moment but understand this; I sent for you only because your people need to see you riding at the front of our ranks, at the head of our warriors as they go out to fight. If you lead your men in this last battle, I have foreseen that the Saxons will be beaten so badly, that it may take years for them to recover. Arthur needs that time, Uther.' Merlyn stood. 'Your people need that time. We need you to be our King in one final, glorious battle. Welcome back old friend, it is truly good to see you.'
Uther arose slowly, with no little difficulty, as the first light of dawn announced itself by gradually revealing details of the draped cloth that hung over his sleeping cot. Although stiff and still drained of energy, he was, nevertheless, glad that the night was finally behind him. Exhausting, fitful visions had plagued his dreams, wolves, Picts, Merlyn wielding his staff… Arthur and, of course, Excalibur, while all the time he had felt the need to run, to get away, but then, as he turned to flee, he always fell, tripping and falling through the trees of the forest, bleeding, crying and feeling helplessly lost as in desperation he sought for escape.
It took a little time to rise and force his body upright and sitting, and then finally to stand up on unsteady feet. Pushing through the untied flaps of his pavilion, he was met by a brightening day that was, thankfully, free of rain. There was a stiff breeze blowing in from the east, and thick clouds were passing at speed above them, appearing like so many small boats chasing across a river as Uther stared up at them content for a moment to be awake and alive. It felt cool and clean, and there was a palpable air of relief that the rain had finally ceased. As he looked out over the thousands of men, women, children and animals that made up the gathered masses below him, he could feel it; a growing optimism. It showed in the smiles on people's faces that he could see moving further down the hill and despite his bad night of sleep, Uther felt so alive, more so than he had in a long, long time.
