by C. M. Gray
He counted twenty-five bouncing paces as he walked, head down, fully exposed to the blast of the storm, and then he was stepping from the bridge and moving quickly towards where three warriors leant over a flickering fire. They glanced round towards him, and one took up a spear as he approached.
'Stand by your fire,' Uther called, then pushed between two of the warriors and held out his hands to the blaze, the heat extremely welcome.
'A filthy day turning to a filthy night. May the spirits be with you.' With a wave of his hand, he turned and walked up the path to where he could see it rounded a rocky outcrop and headed upwards onto the isle; he heard no challenge from behind and counted the spirits in his favour, but his relief was short-lived.
The wind and driven snow attacked him the moment he emerged from the protection of the lower part of the path. It hit him with full force, driving, frozen needles that rocked him on his feet, almost forcing him stumbling down the dark slope to where he knew the waves were waiting to drag him to a cold, wet grave, almost, but not quite. Were the Gods and spirits against him? Regaining his feet and raising an arm to protect his face he staggered on. It took him some time to cover what was probably just a few hundred paces, and it was almost dark now, but he could still see the foot-worn trail leading ahead. He tried to remember how far the fortress had been from the bridge when he had studied it from the clifftop just a short while earlier; surely it couldn't be much further. As he squinted ahead he saw two shadowy figures coming towards him, he tensed and readied for the confrontation, but they simply passed him by saying nothing, more intent on their own descent of the hill.
This whole venture was madness. He took a breath and forced himself on almost blindly, counting two hundred paces lest he become lost, and then he saw the light of another fire flickering, not twenty paces away. Relief and fear washed through him at the same moment; he had made it to the fortress.
Close to the fire, sheltering from the direct blast of the elements, two warriors leant against the palisade beside a large door. They were watching him approach but weren't making any move away from the comfort of the fire in his direction. He muttered an appeal to the spirits to aid Merlyn's magic and bless his endeavours.
'Oh spirits, help me now to pass into the warmth of the fortress and make it that the Druid hasn't sent me chasing sheep in a storm with only a smudge of mud for protection.' He drew himself up and marched forward as he imagined a wet and bedraggled Duc Gerlois might.
'A terrible night, I thank you for guarding my family.' Uther looked from one guard to the other and smiled his thanks. He watched as the two warriors, each wrapped in furs to keep the cold at bay, studied him and then looked at each other, and then at the same time threw their furs to the side and reached for their spears.
Uther reacted immediately, but only just managed to draw Excalibur from its sheath in time to deflect the first spear thrust. He was soaking wet, almost frozen stiff and therefore slow in his movements, but thankfully so were they.
'Attack, we are attacked!' Uther's blade silenced the warrior by slipping past his spear to slide into his neck. From the side of his vision, Uther saw the other warrior's spear stab towards him and only just managed to move his head out of the way in time. The shaft burned along his cheekbone as he raised his arm and deflected it. He felt the warrior draw the spear back for the next lunge and then spun, bringing Excalibur around in a cut that sliced into the man's midsection almost cutting him in two. His gurgling cry was snatched away on the wind. Uther stood panting, glancing around lest the scuffle had been heard, yet no other threat loomed out of the night, and the door remained closed. He picked up one of the discarded furs and cleaned Excalibur with it before returning the blade to its scabbard. He was shaking after the exertion, wondering what had gone wrong, why had they cried attack? Was his disguise still in place? Had it been cleansed from his forehead in the storm or was there no real disguise, after all, just another of Merlyn's tricks? He held his hands out to the warmth of the fire then looked down at the fallen men. It took just a few moments to drag them some distance out into the darkness, away from the light of the fire, then after another few moments warming himself he lifted the heavy bar on the door and pushed it inwards.
The storm arrived without warning. The day had been cold, but during a battle, the cold is the last thing anyone noticed. Nobody had been looking up at the weather. The seasons and elements were the business of Druids, and with Merlyn away those Druids that remained were of little interest to the warriors making war. A covering of clouds had been moving high above them, much the same as any other winter day, but there had certainly been no indication a storm was coming until it did.
The shield walls of the two Celtic forces had first clashed around mid-morning and now, late in the afternoon they still fought at several points around the hill fortress. Those that still battled were mostly unaware of the contest that was taking place between the two men commanding either side. However, by far the greater number of warriors had stopped fighting and had swarmed forward so that they might witness the struggle between two of the oldest tribesmen on the battlefield. They pushed and vied for position as the fighters moved to observe more clearly a mighty battle that all present knew would be sung in the halls for years to come by bards throughout the tribal lands. The first indication that a storm was coming were just a few dancing snowflakes drifting softly on the breeze. These at first went unnoticed. However, within just a few short moments some began to notice that the breeze had become stronger and that snow was falling, with flakes becoming larger and more numerous. The sky had also taken on a more ominous darker shade.
Sir Ector was the first of the fighters to notice, although he gave it little heed having far more important matters at hand. They had stopped fighting and had drawn apart once more to regain some breath and take the other's measure. They were panting, wishing for the energy of their youth, weary beyond the reason to raise their swords yet again, but both knew the other would and therefore so would they. Neither had managed to make a killing blow. Both fighters bled from countless small wounds, nothing serious enough to end the contest and so both were still equally determined to continue and finish the other.
Now the weather had worsened to make their efforts even more challenging. Snow, driven by the increasing wind, beat against the exposed skin of their arms and faces, feeling as if they were suddenly being attacked with a thousand stinging spears. Squinting his eyes, Sir Ector glanced up and saw clouds sweeping past overhead, darkening as they became lost in the now increasingly heavy snow. He glanced across at Gerlois. The big man was beginning to stand, ready to continue the fight, apparently unaware of the worsening weather. The Duc was bleeding from cuts on both arms and his flesh beneath his left eye hung in a gaping wound, blood soaked through his beard and drenched his tunic on the same side, yet he seemed in no mood to stop fighting.
'Do you still think me a coward, Ector? Think me a man who will not pick up a sword?' He swung his blade, and Sir Ector blocked the cut upon the ragged remains of his shield and sent a swinging blow in return. The sound of screaming warriors had been joined by the howling cry of the wind. As Sir Ector beat blow after blow upon Gerlois shield and they moved up the slope towards the more exposed heights of the last defensive mound it became darker, the wind and driving snow ferocious, the storm had arrived.
Falling and sliding in the freezing mud, forcing himself up after the retreating Duc, Sir Ector pushed himself on determined to kill his opponent. The faces of warriors loomed into his vision beside him, cheering him, goading him on as he hacked and swung, kicked and pushed his opponent, driving him back and back, desperate to finish yet still unable to find room to make the stabbing thrust necessary.
Thunder boomed, echoing around them. They had climbed the slope and reached the white plastered side of the fortress and were now on level ground. Gerlois staggered back a few steps. He bent over, gasping for breath, staring through his wet hair at Sir Ector with malevolent hatred.
As Sir Ector closed once more, Gerlois threw his shield to the side, grasped his sword in two hands, and ran at Sir Ector, sword drawn back ready to swing a savage killing stroke.
'Gahhhhh…' The sword swung, singing through the air. It was a last desperate attack by a man spending the very last of his energy, the Duc demanding one final effort from his muscles.
Sir Ector's body was old and exhausted, but it remembered thirty years of battles. Dropping below the flashing metal, he lunged upwards, immediately feeling his blade enter the Duc's chest. The momentary grating resistance as it met ribs and then the bones snapping and the metal sinking unhindered into the large body as the Duc's weight and momentum drove him on to impale himself.
Letting go of his sword, Sir Ector pushed himself away and watched as Duc Gerlois dropped to his knees beside him, eyes wide open in shock, the blade protruding from his back, twitching as blood pumped out around it. About them, the warriors gradually stopped their yelling and screaming as word was passed back that the Duc had fallen. The Duc coughed, vomited a gout of blood and collapsed upon the blade. His head turned to the side with blood bubbling from his mouth, his eyes vacant and staring. Sir Ector pulled away, forced himself to stand, and gazed down at the beaten man taking no joy from his victory. Gerlois leg shuddered as the last of his life bled out, pooling dark against the snow.
Lifting the bar, Uther slipped past the door and into the hall, instantly feeling the warmth of the large room; he could smell the fragrant aromas of food cooking reminding him that he was hungry. It was meat and bread and… a blow hit him on the back of his head sending him stumbling forward towards the ground, which rushed up to meet him.
He must have lost consciousness for a moment or two, for the next thing he was aware of was lying face down upon the fortress floor, breathing in the dusty smell of old floor reeds and hay. His head hurt, and he couldn't see properly, pushing against the ground he tried to rise, but soon realised it wasn't the best idea.
'Who are you?'
Uther tried to turn his head and look up, but it wasn't going to happen, he managed to roll onto his side.
'I'm sorry… I didn't mean to hit you so hard… Uther? Oh, spirits…Uther, it's you…'
Someone was crouching beside him, hands upon his face, as he tried to wipe his eyes.
'I thought you were Gerlois, Oh, Uther. How could I have thought… oh, spirits, we have to move you, someone will come.'
'Igraine, is that you?' He tried to focus on her face.
'Please, you have to get up. What are you doing here? Quick, we have to hide you.' She pulled him to his feet and helped him as they moved past the crackling central fire to an area that was curtained off from the rest of the hall.
'Where is everyone? I thought your daughters were here, servants… others?' Uther looked around the room, his eyes slowly focusing.
'I sent them away to one of the other halls so that I might… Well, I thought Gerlois was coming to visit and…'
'And you thought you should give him a proper welcome?' Uther smiled and stood without the need for her support as his vision cleared.
'I was worried he had come. I saw chariots, and I was worried that we would be called to join him, at Isca or Dimilioc… I don't think I could do that. This place is like another world, a place where nothing can intrude, nothing can reach me here, or so I had thought until you tumbled in.'
'I had to come, Igraine, I had…' she put a finger to his lips and rose up to kiss him, her lips lingering softly upon his.' Uther closed his eyes and felt his whole body tense and his mind open in a way that he had never felt before, his heart pounded wildly in his chest. It felt unreal. Without breaking the kiss, he gazed down at her. Her eyes were closed, her body achingly close to his, the sound of her breathing softly filling his world. She drew away and took his hands, pulling him towards a pile of sleeping furs.
'Will the others be returning? Igraine, we should leave… or hide until the storm passes. I fear for your safety; we should…' But she kissed him again and drew him down upon the warm, soft furs and without doubt there was no other place he wanted to be as she smelt of spice and herbs and all things good, her skin was soft and perfect, and the furs they retired to were so comfortable. He gazed into her eyes, such a perfect blue.
'Gerlois' time is over; he will never hurt you again. I shall make you my Queen, Igraine. I shall honour you and love you and do my very best to make you happy… will you leave with me, Igraine?'
'Shhh.' She smoothed the damp hair from his temple and stroked his face exploring every curve and contour before kissing him again. If I am to be your Queen, Uther, I need to know how we would live, if I would be allowed my freedom. I have so little as the bought and paid for wife of Gerlois, who demands I am always within his sight. This is why I enjoy my time here upon Tintagel, away from him.' She smiled. 'But most important, King Uther Pendragon, I want to know if we will dance? Gerlois would never allow me to dance. He said it was beneath a lady of my ranking, but I think I would like to dance. I think I would like it very much.'
Uther smiled and kissed her. 'We shall dance, Igraine, I will dance with you on our wedding night and every other possible night that we can. And you shall have your freedom; I ask only that you love me and allow me to love you in return.' They sank into the sleeping furs and lost themselves in one never-ending moment that war and storms could never tear away.
It was some time later when he was roused from an exhausted sleep by sounds coming from outside the hall. Opening his eyes, he saw Igraine was still sleeping, a fur wrapped around her naked body, her long dark hair spread out across the fur, framing her incredibly beautiful face, so lost in sleep. He reached out to brush a stray lock aside, but stopped as he heard the door pushed open, it was accompanied by a cold gust of air that rushed around the hall billowing the curtains to the sleeping area. Uther hurriedly searched for his clothes and managed to pull a few things on to cover his dignity before the sound of footsteps stopped the other side of the curtain.
'My Lady, are you there, is all well?'
Igraine awoke with a start, glanced at Uther and sat up clutching the furs to her chest. She was about to answer, but it was too late, the curtain was pulled roughly aside. There was a moment of hesitation on both sides, and then the warrior standing there stabbed his spear down towards Uther and cried out in alarm.
'He is here! The intruder is here!'
From out of the darkness a blade flashed in the moonlight before plunging towards Uther's heart accompanied by a hiss of expelled breath. Maude lunged forward and caught the wrist just as the point touched Uther's cloak, and punched the darkness where she suspected whatever had become of the Abbess was concealed. It was difficult in the near blackness to see where to hit, but to her satisfaction, her fist connected with something solid. There was a terrible screech of inhuman anger and then whatever it was, retreated into the gloom, the wrist dissolving within Maude's grip, the knife dropping to the forest floor with a small thud.
'She isn't human. Whatever that is, it isn't human,' hissed Maude. 'I never liked her, I told you she was poisoning you, but that thing is more than just the Abbess.' She glanced down to Uther, who had slumped again but was trying to get up. She helped him stand. 'We have to keep going, Lord. I think we're on the path to the settlement of Somerton. If we can keep moving, we will reach there before daybreak, and we'll be safe. Can you walk, Sire?'
'Yes. I am feeling surprisingly well considering I just cheated death once again thanks to you.' Uther crouched stiffly and felt about in the mist for the fallen knife. After a few moments, he found it. 'Hah!' He smiled in the darkness. 'Well, if she comes back she faces two able and armed warriors, she doesn't stand a chance.'
'Yes, Lord, let's hope that's enough.' Maude took Uther's arm and guided him back towards the path, stumbling and tripping on unseen branches and brambles, until the vague outline of the path was revealed. They walked a few steps, listening intently to the sounds of the forest around them. The soft m
ovement of the branches rustling overhead in the breeze, their footsteps crunching underfoot sounding unnaturally loud. An owl hooted in the distance and the sounds of small animals scurrying amongst the undergrowth were much closer, and all the time they were expecting something to leap out of the darkness towards them.
'She's watching us, from somewhere up in those trees,' whispered Uther. He had stopped and was looking up at the dark canopy of the forest overhead. 'Morgana,' he called, 'why don't you come talk with me.' Uther gazed around into the darkness, seeing nothing. 'Morgana. I rescued your mother from a brutal, terrible man. I know he was your father, but he was not a good man. Let me finish telling you my story. It's what you wanted from me after all; I have a need to finish.'
'Let's keep walking, Lord,' whispered Maude. She pulled on Uther's arm, and he allowed himself to be drawn along beside her whilst still gazing up into the trees.
'I told you how I entered Tintagel. I suppose I was a fool believing that Merlyn had disguised me, I was lucky that the storm had arrived to hide my entrance. It wasn't me who killed your father, but of course, it was my man who did, and I would have done so in his place if I'd had the chance. Your mother and your sisters joined me and lived happily as part of my household; we did not know where you had gone. I saw you last upon the wall at Isca, when I returned our token, this token.' Uther held up the stone first given to him on the beach by Morgana as a little girl before they had departed on Merlyn's quest. 'You returned it to me when last I left your Abbey.' What happened to you, Morgana? Where did you learn to hate with such passion?'
