by C. M. Gray
'Good morning, Your Grace.'
Uther glanced around and saw a young Iceni warrior standing to the side of the pavilion's entrance, tussled blonde hair and a large hawkish nose that didn't make her unattractive; she was grinning in obvious delight at being in the presence of her King.
Uther smiled, 'Oh, good morning…?'
'Maude, Your Grace. My father was with you at Mount Badon.' She drew herself to order, holding her spear more upright, obviously proud to be guarding her King.
'Maude… good morning Maude. Would you be so good as to aid your King? I am still a little weak from my illness and your support would be most welcome.'
'Of course, Lord.' Maude moved to Uther's side and held out her arm tattooed in swirling blue for him to take, which he did, shuffling forward on unsteady feet.
'The rain has stopped, Sire. I don't know if that was your doing, but it's the first time it's stopped in…. well, it feels like weeks!'
'I assure you, Maude, that stopping the rain most certainly wasn't my doing. It might be something Merlyn could accomplish, I wouldn't put that past him, but I am merely a very frail and mortal King.' He smiled as Maude frowned, and then said, 'I would need to be in far better health to stop the rain and stronger still to make the sun come out.' He laughed as Maude glanced at him with an astonished look on her face.
'Uther, you're awake!' Coming up the hill towards them with his robes hitched up as he walked carefully over the long, wet grass, was Merlyn, beaming happily through his scraggy white beard. 'And I see you are already bringing joy and…' - he glanced up at the scudding clouds - '… and possibly a little sunshine, or is that too much to hope for?'
Uther smiled. 'I've just been explaining to my new friend Maude, that I am not capable of much at all at the moment. I believe that if we are once again about to fight a decisive battle, as you have indicated, Merlyn, then I would like some information so we might turn things to our advantage. Perhaps we can meet Octa a little more prepared than he expects us to be.
Although daylight had long since broken the hold of darkness, the chamber was dim, the shutters still closed, and only the smallest chinks of light were able to enter. The thin, bright shafts speared through the darkness, made whole as they reflected on the floating motes of dust and the smoke that lazily escaped from the small dying fire. The hearth was set in the middle of the room, and its fire had burnt fiercely for most of the night, but the bright flickering flames had long fled along with the supply of wood, leaving just a few glowing embers and a steady trickle of smoke.
The lone figure kneeling before it stared into the last glowing embers oblivious to the lack of light and the cloying, dense atmosphere.
Hers had been a long day and then an even longer night. She had spent most of the daylight hours, scouring the woods and countryside, gathering ash bark, mugwort, henbane and after visiting the hanging tree at the base of Glastening Tor, she had finally located a healthy mandrake plant, a rare find that only the most knowledgeable knew of, probably escaped from some ancient Roman herb garden.
Tradition dictated that the mandrake only grew upon ground that has been touched by fluids released by a hanging man. She knew it to grow in other locations as well, and that it was a rare non-native root growing from original plants brought in by the Romans during their occupation. She had already searched several abandoned old Roman villa sites, but finally, she had found her plant away from the villa, ten paces to the north of the hanging tree and had thought at the time that it was a good omen.
The extracting of the mandrake root took a little more precaution than had been necessary for the other items. After carefully digging all around to loosen the root, she had tied a rope, firstly to the base of the plant and then to her horse, and she had pulled it from a distance, chanting and covering her ears lest the sound of it being drawn should strike her down and kill her. The root once extracted was big and healthy, and resembled a dirty, stunted fat man. Once back at the Abbey, the kitchen garden had provided the final ingredients necessary. She had then eaten a sparse meal and then locked herself away, feeding the fire with the wood and a mixture of the roots, plants and herbs that she had gathered, both to banish the cold and, of course, to bring on the visions that she craved.
Now it was over, at the end of her night. The sweet pungency of the earlier blaze still hung heavy, and her thoughts and mind remained beyond the smouldering residues of the fire, they were currently many leagues away watching the dying King.
Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the last small branch of scented rosemary, twisting and worrying at the green sticks, the pointed, fragrant leaves long lost to the detritus and dust before her.
'He lives, yet remains a broken wretch of a man,' her mumbling voice signalled that she was close to her return. She began to sway, back and forth in time with her words. 'Uther Pendragon, you will… not… escape… your… penance. I shall not allow the Druid… to claim you again.' After a few moments, her eyes fluttered open, and Morgana Le Fay began to weep. Her body shook, and then her frustration erupted, and she pounded her thighs with her fists. The sobbing slowly began to subside, she stopped hitting herself and became still. Opening her eyes, she drew a hand across them to wipe away her tears and noticed the small, broken twigs she was holding. She lay them gently where she judged the fire still held enough heat to make them burn and then sniffed as they began to smoke and watched, her mind drifting a little, recalling her visions.
The King walked, he lived and was, by some strange miracle or Druidic trick, somewhat healthy, assuredly a whole lot more healthy than when she had last seen him, strapped to the back of a cantering horse.
'He still dies and, once he is returned, he shall surely die once more; slowly, in remorse… and alone. There must be cause for him to be returned and for that, he must return, close to death.' Gathering what was left of her energy, she rose from the floor, wincing at the cramping stiffness in her bones, and brushed the dirt and bits of twig from her robes.
The nuns would be finished with morning prayers and already about the many tasks it took to run the small Abbey. Crossing to the window, she threw open the shutter allowing the fresh air to enter and the smoke to depart and leant upon the sill. Gazing out, she brightened a little. One particular task that she kept for herself was the care of the Abbey's small flock of chickens. The prospect of being in the open and collecting some eggs lifted her spirits. With a sigh and a shake of her head at the strangeness of life, be it by the will of God or the eccentricities of the spirits, she walked from her chamber and headed down the dark corridor towards the gardens and waiting chickens. Uther Pendragon would return soon enough; it was inevitable, and when he did, she could get back to the unravelling of his soul once more. Mayhap there was a way that his return could be assured. She became lost in thought, and then her pace became brisker with her decision taken. A journey must be made, and a contract struck.
* * *
Within the central pavilion upon the hill, it was hot, uncomfortable and crowded with Druids, elders and warriors. The air was ripe with a heady aroma of stale exhaled breath, unclean bodies sweating in leather and plate armour and the ever present odour of horses. In the midst of the throng, Uther was starting to feel weak. He had been around men like these and Councils such as this for most of his life, yet this day the atmosphere offended him as it had never done before. His head ached, his back hurt, and he was longing for the release of his pallet, a little silence and the chance to be alone. It felt as if everyone in the pavilion was crowding him, looking for him to provide answers, expecting him to bring about some glorious victory after all their recent defeats. He shifted his position on the rough wooden bench and then pushed back hard against whomever it was that constantly leaned over him.
He glanced back into the bearded, surprised features of Sir Gareth, one of the most eager warriors and he knew, a good friend to Arthur. Drawing a breath he swallowed the rebuke he had been about to make and offered a smile and a little courte
sy. 'Please, Sir Gareth, would you give me a little room.' The young warrior blushed and offered a mumbled apology before stepping back a little. Uther wiped the back of his sleeve across his brow, turned back to the business at hand and tried to make some sense from the information he had been hearing.
'I don't understand why we are just gathering our forces and then marching up to Valerum like so many cattle being driven to market? Explain to me again whose idea was it to fight a battle there?'
'It was Octa, Sire,' muttered Sir Ector.
'In that case, I certainly don't like the idea,' said Uther. 'Why are we doing what he wants?'
Sir Ector cleared his throat and sat a little straighter. 'The Saxon made a challenge for us to meet him upon the battlefield to settle our… differences once and for all. There has been no real battle with the Saxons since you became ill. We clash with them daily in some form or other as they mount raids against our holdings and attempt to force our border and we push them back, but this is the first time we have called to gather the tribes and are ready to form a shield wall.' Sir Ector kept his gaze upon the table where a rough plan of the country had been chalked. It was preferable to raising his eyes and looking into what he knew would be the piercing, blue-eyed gaze from his King.
'Settle our differences? What differences are we settling, Sir Ector? That they steal our land and, once conquered, force our people to bend under their Saxon rule. We strike them back, as we have always done, blood is spilt and on and on and on… This, I trust, has been our main complaint against our eastern neighbours, and theirs against us? You make it sound as if they are inviting us to dance at the Beltane celebrations rather than enter into battle.' Uther drew a breath and rubbed his eyes. 'We shall continue to clash with the Saxons regardless of the outcome of this battle. Throughout my reign we have made countless truces, fought scores of battles, reset our boundaries and, for a while, they have always honoured those agreements. But then more of their cursed longships arrive, and they seek to force the borders again. What we need is a decisive victory to gain some time so we can make our land our own once again under a new King as Merlyn suggests.' Uther looked towards Arthur, who sat opposite him. The young prince appeared, for a moment, as if he were about to object to the implication of Uther ever giving way to him, but Uther raised his hand to still him and spoke on.
'The land you indicated, the area chosen for the battle… here.' Uther placed a finger upon the chalked table. 'Have our scouts made any assessment?' I assume it favours Octa and his forces?'
'Yes, Sire. They already gather, however, it is on our border, which means neither side should be favoured.'
'I propose we gather our troops in the woodland, here,' - Uther's finger moved - 'to the south. 'How many men, chariots and horsemen do we have to make up our numbers? And what do we know of the Saxon strengths, how do they prepare for our upcoming dance? We need information, Sir Ector. I sorely miss Cal and his wolves right now, but perhaps we can find out a little more before our shield walls clash. Send out the scouts and get us information. It is knowledge that shall gain us our victory over Octa, not just a wall of hacking, thrusting steel, although we will need plenty of that. Let us talk of our forces.'
The Council continued throughout the day, calculating troops, reckoning supplies, comparing strengths and discussing the merits of the terrain around Valerum, until the light began to bleed from the day and bellies in the pavilion started to growl, bemoaning the lateness of a meal. The table was cleared, and those of a lesser rank sent to pass word amongst the men that plans were forming and that their King was preparing to lead them to a great and decisive victory.
For those that remained seated around the long uneven table, mead and ale were brought along with pallets of boar, pheasant and venison. The meal was eaten in the Roman style, from trenchers of thick, substantial platters of bread that were placed in front of each man and the food piled up and eaten from the top of it. The fat, grease and the rich gravy that accompanied the meats, all soaked into the bread, which was torn to shreds and enthusiastically and noisily devoured.
Five days later the tribes began to depart. The camp was dismantled, and the scouts led each tribe to the woodland south of Valerum.
Chapter 3
Gift from a Crow
'His foot. Spirits man, tie it off… hold the horse still or for the life of me…' Uther heard the exchange although couldn't see Sir Ector and the other men as they continued the task of binding him to his horse, tugging him to and fro so he felt as if his head might burst. Humiliating it may be, but with his energies still much reduced, he was most certainly unable to keep his seat for any length of time without the aid of wood and hemp to hold him in place. He gasped as the horse took fright. It skittered and danced beneath him, and he was thrown somewhat violently to the side. It was all he could do to stay upright even though he had already been tied quite securely to the saddle. Thankfully, the beast settled, and he silently gave thanks to the spirits that it hadn't broken away and galloped off and that he had managed to keep his seat. The wooden board was once more in position, holding him stiffly offering a mixture of support and torment in equal measure. It was so tight and unyielding that when the horse moved it pressed into his back and despite the layers of padding, it constricted his breathing, but at least, it kept him in place.
With little else to do but endure, Uther gazed out from under the leather and steel helm that they had put on his head and tried to focus on the constantly shifting images as they spun past in front of him. His fever had returned, his vision was hampered, and it was hard to move his head. After a while, he was aware that he was slipping in and out of consciousness and that his condition, once again, was declining quite quickly, yet he was also mindful that this was a madness that he must endure.
They managed to bring his horse under control once more, and he swallowed the feelings of nausea, forcing his eyes to focus as his view stopped spinning and things began to come into focus. His breathing was rasping, echoing loud in his ears because of the helmet, and he felt a wave of panic that he tried to quell by drawing in slow deep breathes. The men finished with their knots and as they stepped away, the horse calmed now that it wasn't being pushed and pulled about.
'You are secure, Sire.' It was Sir Ector's voice, 'Are you well, King Uther?'
Well… how could he be well? But he knew Sir Ector enough to know that the warrior would require an answer.
'I live, Sir Ector, I live and endure,' he murmured. 'However, you should get us moving before I stop living and simply die of boredom.' He heard Sir Ector laugh, and then he must have moved away to find his own horse.
Uther returned to his own small world, still trying to swallow back nausea; the smell of dung, both horse and human that filled the damp air wasn't helping. He endeavoured to focus on some riders ahead and a rumbling chariot, and felt a bead of sweat trickle down from his brow, tickling him in a most irritating way. He couldn't get to it because his hands were tied quite securely to the saddle. Setting his mind to ignoring it, he concentrated his attention instead past the narrow nose guard of the helm, once again watching the churning throng of tribesmen as they readied for war around him. He drew in a breath, feeling the rope constraints around his chest tighten. The rope was a necessity; he knew that, but the helm wasn't. He hated the helm more than anything else. Merlyn had been smiling as he'd buckled it on, reminding Uther of when it had been passed to him by a crazy old Druid munching acorns so many years ago.
It had been the day after they had experienced a dreaming at the bottom of the Druid's well, Uther had been a boy then, a boy named Usher.
'He gave it to me, and I wore it at the battle of Aegelsthorpe, but I am now sure it was meant to be passed to you, Uther,' Merlyn had said. 'Truth be told I had quite forgotten that I had it, but it made itself known to me and now calls to be worn by its King in battle.' Uther had stared at the Druid, watching the white whiskered face as the buckle was fastened, rocking his head to the side as it
was tightened and wondered what he still had planned for him, this man he had once called friend.
Oh, spirits, he was tired, so thoroughly exhausted.
Without warning, the horse broke to the side once again, dancing around in a circle as one of the men struggled to hold onto the reins whilst talking to the horse, to calm it. It was a jittery beast and no mistake, thought Uther. He heard others move in, trying to control his frightened animal and Uther resumed his own private misery, gazing out over the heads of warriors, chariots and horses as they spun past his visor.
The rain had eased at first light following a night where it had fallen relentlessly, drumming on the fabric of the pavilion above Uther's head, lending him dreams of charging horses and thundering chariots, but now it had all but stopped. As the mass of humanity had grudgingly roused themselves, the sun had risen somewhere behind the cloak of clouds to offer a weak and feeble light that barely pushed aside the darkness to welcome this new winter morn.
Uther sighed again, the sound loud in his ears. It was not a cold day, in fact in his layers of armour and cloaks, Uther Pendragon, High King of the Britons, was uncomfortably hot. He glanced up as best he could beneath the helm and watched as clouds in various shades of grey passed leaden and low above them. Uther felt his stomach gurgle. Oh spirits, allow me to keep my dignity today, don't let me shit myself. Casting his eyes past the closest horsemen to the encampment, he noticed that the same stiff breeze that was driving the clouds was tugging at the smoke as it rose from the countless fires being abandoned by the moving tribesmen. However, while the air was undoubtedly being purged, he reflected that it still remained somewhat pungent. Uther could smell the horses, the men and the mud, in fact, he realised that his sense of smell felt much sharper than he could ever remember it being before and right now he wasn't sure if this was such a good thing.
