The Shadow of a King (Shadowland Book 2) (24 page)

'Shhh, hush now.' She held the woman against her chest feeling the sobs and grief shake her.

'Your boy has gone to play with Dylan, I know of this God, do you?' There was no answer, but she decided all she could do was speak and hope the sound of her voice brought comfort.

'The God Lyr is well known to all of us who sail upon the God's waters, but Dylan, he is less known. He was born a mortal child, to mortal parents and loved the sea. He grew up to love it so much that stories tell that he swum with the fish before he could walk and then one day, so the tales go, he escaped his parent's arms to remain deep in the depths where he joined the ranks of the Gods.' The woman's sobs continued as Igraine rocked her, but the trembling had calmed a little as she listened.

'Dylan is known to call these waters where we now sail, off the coast of Cymru, his home. He plays with ships the way small boys are often playful with bugs as they pull off their legs, your boy will swim alongside Dylan and they can play together now.' She knew it was important that they request both Lyr and Dylan to allow them to pass and that Dylan play fair, but to call upon the God's favour with the life of a child? Gerlois had not only changed; he had now become a monster in her eyes.

She rocked the weeping woman and patted her back wishing there was more she could do. A surge of resentment swept through her as the darkness became almost complete, robbing her of sight. It was an anger toward her murdering husband and his stubborn foolhardiness, forcing them to remain at sea and bear this ordeal when she could see no necessity to inflict any of this upon them. There were women and children on board, not just some party of raiding warriors. Why could he not understand that and show some shred of compassion? The cold wind tugged at her wet hair drawing it from under her headdress and making it dance about her exposed face, but she felt too tired to try and cover it again. She hugged the boy's mother to her and welcomed her daughters with her other arm as cold tears slid down her face unseen, but then after a short while, she sniffed them back. Staring up into the gloom, she softly implored Lyr to clear away the clouds and take the drizzling rain away. If the clouds departed, then the stars might be revealed to guide them or, best of all, the moon might light their passing

Despite her discomfort, at some point, she must have dozed because she woke with a start and for one blessed moment didn't know where she was. She had been dreaming of Pendragon fortress, of the music and dancing at the Samhain festival and of course of the moments when she had shared such an intimate conversation in the shadows with King Uther. In the dream, they had laughed, and he had taken her hand and implored her to dance with him, drawing her from the darkness out into the light. She had felt happiness surge through her body, but then she had awoken and realisation struck as her body quickly reminded her that she was wet and sitting upon a hard wooden deck. Then before that, for most of the day, she had sat in the back of an uncomfortable cart, so her buttocks were both numb and bruised and would be aching for days. She sighed, much longer like this and the bruises would be turning to sores, which renewed her worries for the children and invoked another softly muttered curse upon Gerlois.

Then the pains in her back made themselves known, and she tried to move a little, this drew a weak moan from Morgana. Oh, this was just intolerable, sitting for so long without the chance to stand and stretch. She shivered, squeezed water from her shawl before wrapping it back around her and Morgana, and wished she had stayed asleep.

She could hear the horse moving, feel through the boards beneath her when its hooves stomped upon the deck. Poor creature, she had forgotten that it was suffering too. Drawing a deeper breath, she tried to shake the feeling of despair. Tried to believe that it really would all be over soon. Grimacing, she turned her neck, rocking it slowly from side to side to work out the stiffness and ease the discomfort. About her, just visible in what little ambient light there was, were the shapes of the women and the children in her little group, bunched closely together. The whimpering of one or more of the children could be heard as they slept, mixing amongst the other sounds of the boat as it creaked and splashed, rose and fell, meeting the waves, with the wind and water hissing about them.

Oh, by the spirits, but this was a wretched experience for all of them, and she knew it. There would be at least two more nights at sea if Gerlois didn't have a change of heart and head for the coast, who else might he sacrifice in his demented need to sail on? Were her girls safe from their own father? Was she? She fretted and fussed, and then her eyes were drawn upwards as without any warning, the night sky seemed to awaken, the clouds slowly drawing apart, allowing the first moonlight to break through and reveal the churning sea, painting the waves and the boat in its cold, silvery light.

Looking out across the now visible seascape of rolling white-capped waves, she wondered at the beauty of it all, and then glanced up and felt her feelings of despair slip further away to be replaced by awe as the full majesty of the stars was fully revealed. A vast scattering of constellations, their light painting the edges of the retreating clouds. It lightened her heart, and she drew in a breath of cold salty air, her eyes flittering from one group of stars to the next. At the highest point overhead, the stars seemed to be grouped much closer together, appearing as a river flowing wide across the dark sky. The Druids, she knew, called it the white river and told that it was governed over by the Goddess Arianrhod, who they said was the true mother of the sea God Dylan. It was along this silvery pathway that they said the spirits of the dead must be carried on their way to the Shadowland.

Feeling better than she had in days, she realised how small her problems were in the eyes of the Gods and that anything and all was allowed to be possible in this life. She had been born in a village to the chieftain of the Cornovii, been married to a Duc, born beautiful daughters and travelled to the ends of the land. And now she had a King casting his eye towards her. She may be cold and wet, and in the middle of the sea, but what future might possibly lay before her, she could not even begin to imagine, but for now, at least, she could dream…

They saw the stones being transported to Stanenges by the Druids or at least some thought they saw them. It was late on the fourth day after leaving Pendragon fortress, the long line of men and women, chariots, and carts trudging one after another beneath a featureless white sky. Uther was tired, riding slumped in his saddle and having ridden since daybreak, he had been dreaming and thinking, anticipating their arrival at the camp that his men would have prepared to await his arrival.

A whisper of excitement seemed to travel down the column as word was passed from warrior to warrior. Apparently some of the slingers, a group of warriors who were marching on foot at the rear of the long column, had seen the huge stones on the horizon, passing over the distant hills. The buzz of speculation and interest ran up and down the line with calls of confirmation and disbelief sounding in equal measures, it was the most interesting thing to have happened all day. Uther, sitting high upon his horse, gazed out at the hills, scanning along them for any sign of movement, but nothing caught his eye other than wet trees. He continued to watch for a few moments, eager for some glimpse of huge stones floating one after another, or more than likely pulled upon horse and cart he reasoned, because he knew Druids to be tricksters. As eager to pull the wool down over your eyes and confuse you whilst calling it magic, than show themselves to be doing things as any normal person might do. But then, he reasoned, whatever Merlyn had done to those stones to make them float was still rather magical, not to say getting them down from up on the mountain all by himself, so maybe they were flying, who was he to say that Druids couldn't make huge stones fly…

He returned his scrutiny to the horizon, but still couldn't see any sign of them. After a while, as the chatter about stones and Druids lessened around him, he returned to pondering the muddy path, the possibility of a dry pavilion for the night, and thoughts of Igraine. The worst thing about travelling at any time was the mind-numbing monotony of being on horseback for day after day. This close to the winter solstice, the boredom was made worse by the cold and rain. At least, thought Uther, I am not walking and have a comfortable living space being prepared for my arrival. He looked about at the chiefs and warriors riding around him who would also be closely cared for as soon as they arrived at camp, and then he glanced back to the tide of men and women who were walking to the rear of the column with the carts. He knew their number would be close to five thousand and provisioning for the march was a taxing task, one that he was glad could be passed to more competent men than himself. The warriors marching on foot would be setting their own camps when they arrived, finding their own areas to light fires and would erect shelters from materials carried on the carts and from what they could cut from the trees. He also knew that a large number of them would simply enter the forest to seek shelter. It made him reflect on the time when Cal, Nineve, Merlyn and he had travelled through the forest of the Wield, sleeping out amongst the trees with no cover from the rain and cold other than their cloaks and a bed of gathered moss and bracken. It wasn't a bad memory, not when compared with other events that had assaulted him from before, during and after his rise to be King. Sleeping out in the rain had been cold, and of course wet, but it was a pretty good memory of simpler times. He looked up, startled from his reverie by a rider forcing his way towards him through the flow of carts, warriors and horses. It was one of his scouts, a man of the Iceni; Uther could tell from the blue cloak and swirl of wet blue woad upon his bare chest, he held up his hand in greeting as the warrior approached. The man jumped to the ground to kneel, but Uther quickly called for him to stand.

'There is no need to lay in the mud, my friend. You have ridden hard to find me, what news do you bring of what lies ahead of us?'

The warrior rose and swung himself back up onto his horse's back before answering.

'A temporary fort has been built awaiting your arrival some short way ahead, Sire; all shall be ready for your arrival. But we also have word on both the Cornovii and the Dumnonii as you requested. Word has been sent to all their villages to gather their spears and amass both at Isca and also Dimilioc. None have been told why, save that they gather in defence of their Lord. We were told that thousands are gathering at the two fortresses, it seems that they received their calling almost half a moon ago.'

Uther nodded. Gerlois hadn't wasted any time. He must have sent his orders almost as soon as the boats had beached after their quest. He had known they would flee but delayed their departure until he was sure his warriors would all be gathered together upon his return. Uther ground his teeth and tried not to show his frustration to the warriors that were marching past them, all staring openly at their King, as he discussed matters far beyond their ken. It would seem that the Duc was more prepared than he had given him credit for, but why call his warriors to two different fortresses more than a day's march apart, was this just to cause confusion to those he knew would be pursuing him? The planning was something Uther reluctantly admired, but it also left him with a feeling of irritation, Gerlois should not be the enemy, but he was clearly preparing to confront the combined might of the British tribes. He tried to shake off the feeling and thanked the man, then he rejoined the movement of the warriors and pondered deeply. There was much to be settled, firstly at Isca, it would seem, and then possibly on to Dimilioc.

The raven flew across frost covered fields, above woodland already sleeping its winter sleep, and hovels with smoking fires, housing peasants trying to survive winter's harsh grasp. It knew where it was going; there was a path but a short distance to the side, making it easy to find its way, with a few peasants making their way between villages in the early morning light. It meandered across the countryside enjoying the freedom and sensation of flight, the wind making a soft, pleasing hush across its glistening black wings as its head turned from side to side taking in every detail of the land, all its features and especially the people it passed.