The Shadow of a King (Shadowland Book 2) (25 page)

As it came to hamlets and villages both large and small it flapped its great wings to gain height, before gliding down to flit softly once more over fields and rivers, until finally, it crossed the unmarked border into Saxon lands that, to the eyes of the bird, were little different to the lands claimed by the Britons, yet it knew this to be the current boundary between the two. Then a burnt out hall confirmed it; it flew on.

Recognising the settlement that it sought, the raven alighted high in an old elm tree, its branches bare of leaves this late in the year. It gripped the branch with its claws and turned its head to peer down at the warriors gathered below standing around their small mean fire; the village guards such as they were. They were stamping their feet for warmth and blowing steam from their mouths over cold hands as they joked and chatted and bemoaned the chill in their harsh, abrupt speech. Swords, spears and axes were left piled to the side of the fire along with their shields, ready for an attack that clearly none of them expected to happen.

With a loud
'cawww'
the bird swooped over their heads, barely noticed, and then down between huts towards the largest of the grouped dwellings. As the raven approached the ground it shimmered and grew, and moments later, Morgana le Fey was stooping to push past the low doorway.

She rose and drew down the cowled hood of her cloak. The occupants glanced up as the door banged shut behind her, the only announcement of her presence. They were the same group as had previously occupied the roundhouse; the two women, a small group of children and the man by the fire, the dog even now shrinking back with a soft growl. They all stared at her as she pointedly ignored them all and stepped towards the fire, to warm her hands.

'You bring news?' Octa glanced at the door, a frown set upon his face, and then stood up from where he had been crouched, sharpening a seax. He quickly sheathed it, then slipped the stone into a pouch tied at his waist. 'We had not expected you… not so soon.' She could tell he was unsettled; perhaps he had expected his men to announce her, the thought made her smile. It was good that she could ruffle the man just by appearing when he least expected it.

'The King still dies, I become weary of tending him and listening to his lies. He is fevered, delusional, and has no recollection of truth as it indeed was, regardless of the strength of the potion that I give him, his mind has broken. I have come to summon your warriors to take him away.' She looked up and smoothed the front of her black robes before fixing him with a frowning stare that she knew would continue to unsettle him. After a moment, she said, 'You promise to make him suffer? You said that if and when I delivered him to you, that you would take him away from his people and draw out the moments of his death until it became a long, unending scream… can I hold you to your promise, Octa Hengistson? Can I pass this burden to you so that the spirit of my father can finally lay in peace?'

Octa gestured for her to take the seat by the fire, and then resumed his own, letting out a sigh as he sat down. 'We will take the King from you, of course, but you promised to deliver the son as well. We need Arthur so that the Britons have no leader. The King is the King, yes, but with the Druids help, the boy is already ruling. Some might ask what use a dying man could be to me when the whelp is already leading the pack, don't you think?'

'The dying man is still the King, and he can be taken easily, taking the son will need a little more finesse, he is forever within sight of the Druid, Merlyn; he never allows the boy to be alone.' Morgana accepted a clay bowl of steaming liquid from one of the women and smiled her thanks. The rich earthy smell of chamomile greeted her as she inhaled. Sipping it tentatively, she found it had been sweetened with honey and was delicious, but a little too hot. She lay the bowl beside her to cool and turned her attention back to Octa as he began to speak.

'We know well of Merlyn; we are told that the Druid wields the most powerful of magic, and he has a deep hatred of my people for some strange reason.' He smiled, and then his face became serious once more. 'We will come for the King, but it is for you to deliver the boy. Then both of them shall disappear. They shall never return to trouble either of us. Without them, the land will quickly fall to Saxon rule, which I assure you will benefit both of us. Bring us the boy who would be King.'

Morgana spoke calmly as if she were talking to a child. 'You must have patience. All will be done, everything completed. Firstly, you shall rid us both of the father, the pup I shall bring you when the time is right; I will not rush this unnecessarily. Your men will come to the Abbey upon the next full moon; this is in six days. I shall allow a small group to enter the Abbey and take the King. Only one guard watches over him, a woman, a tiresome creature whom I shall deal with in my own way.' She picked the bowl up and sipped her infusion, feeling the warmth of it fill her, before continuing. 'This is the way of things and how it shall be done, are we in agreement?' She waited for Octa to nod, and then glanced up towards the hole in the centre of the roof where the smoke from the fire lapped lazily around the thatched edges before being drawn out by the soft morning breeze. She placed her bowl on the floor and returned her gaze to Octa. 'Do I have your word, your blood bond, that you will come… do we need to cut thumbs to seal the oath?' Her head tilted to the side, much as the raven's had, as she waited for him to answer.

He shook his head and sat back before clearing his throat. 'There is no need for blood or oaths; we will come. For what greater prize can I ask, but the living body of the King of the Britons?'

She nodded, raised her hands, and with a crackle of energy and a flutter of robes, the raven was flapping up towards the smoke hole, the dog having found its courage, barking furiously below. She flitted through and then sat on the edge, her head once again turning to the side, beady black eye staring down into the shocked, upturned faces of the Saxons, and with one last
'cawww,'
she was gone.

 Chapter 19 
A Conflict of Interest

The hills and woodland, the paths and lanes, every animal, man, woman, and child steamed and gave forth a rich aroma of unwashed and foul odours in the early morning light of dawn on this, a new winter's day. As it frequently had over the past ten days of their march, it had rained for much of the night making rest and sleep almost impossible. Thankfully, the clouds had finally fled before the appearance of a brilliant sunrise that lit the misty world about them with soft orange rays. The weak but welcome warmth now bathed the steaming, bedraggled column.

Uther was riding close to the front, exhausted by the journey, the rain and even more by the constant sticky mud that caked the feet of those marching, it bogged down chariots and carts, and it even made progress difficult for the horses.

The seemingly endless procession of warriors had spent the best part of each day slowly moving forward in numb resignation as they travelled towards their goal, which for most was simply the hope of a hot meal and dry place to sleep. With such a large force it was more than often difficult just to follow on, as those in front were in turn slowed by impassable puddles big enough to be called ponds and paths filled with mud. They tried to ignore the rain as it lashed down upon them in the open or dripped upon them from the trees, below which they sought shelter, as water found its way into every item of armour and clothing that they wore or carried.

The previous night they had sought rest after darkness had already fallen when it had finally been decided that they were not going to reach the next camp. Once again between planned resting places, they had been forced to make do with very little shelter and no chance of lighting fires. As the light had faded to darkness and the cold had crept in to wrap chill fingers about each and every one of them, regardless if they were warrior, Lord, or King, they had huddled beneath trees and bushes in sad little groups. Uther had spoken with Sir Ector and Merlyn, but it had been hard to find the energy to converse.

Sometime in the early light of dawn, knowing that no one had found sleep or any real rest, Uther gave the order that they would soon be leaving. Since then, they had been forcing one foot after the other in the misty gloom in the hope of reaching Gloucester some time later in the morning. It was in the settlement of Gloucester that Uther knew they could finally find rest for a few days in the well-established settlement and hill fort.

'Do you know much about where we are going, Gloucester?' Asked Uther with little enthusiasm for the answer. 'It sounds like a Roman name, what did we call it before the Romans, do you know?'

Merlyn looked up from his reverie and smiled, happy at the opportunity to converse.

'Yes, Uther. I know it well. I knew it before the Romans were here… but that is another story. Before the Romans there was a settlement and an ancient fortress, even older than me, called Kingsholm; had a good sized settlement around it. When the Romans arrived, they subjugated the local tribes and renamed it Gloucester. Ignored the hill fort and built their own strange villas and buildings on the lower slopes as the fortress on the higher ground fell into decay. Once the Romans left, the fortress was reclaimed by the local tribesmen again and today it endures once more.'

'So a King once lived here?'

'Most probably, sometime in the mists of the past, but the Roman name Gloucester seems to have taken a good hold, so unless you want to live here let's just keep calling it Gloucester. I doubt the locals would wish to have their town's name revert to Kingsholm anyway.'

'That's fine by me, I just hope it is close and ready to receive us,' said Uther as he pulled the hood of his cloak, lower.

'I know that Sir Ector sent riders ahead to warn of our approach several days ago. I am sure so that all necessary preparations have been made to house and feed our warriors, even if the weather has not been our friend and delayed us.'

'It is difficult, but we will endure and become the greater for it,' said Uther. 'There are many sound reasons that war is fought in every season other than in winter. We should all be sitting out the winter, warm and dry.' He dammed Gerlois for the tenth time that morning as he realised that the sun was barely over the treeline. Lately, he had spent far too much time damning the man he sighed; oh, but damn the man indeed, for at least one final time this morning. He really should be back enjoying the comforts of Pendragon fortress, warming his feet by the fire, thinking of a boar hunt or planning what actions to take against the Saxons come the Spring thaw, not splashing about in mud, wet through to the skin in anticipation of bringing the tribes together for war.

Thankfully, for the remainder of the day, the weather remained fair and the warrior's spirits seemed to lift as they warmed from marching and their clothing and leather armour dried.

By midday, the path they were travelling merged with a Roman road. Uther's horse clattered up onto the well-packed gravel surface and he noticed that while some of the warriors walked on the mud-free stone surface, others still chose to struggle along the muddy path at its side. 'Lest they lose contact with the spirits of the earth,' he knew. He remembered his own misgivings when he had first encountered the strange flat surface of stones many, many years ago and his own belief that if he trod upon its surface for too long, he would lose contact with the spirits of the land and his ancestors that watched over him… but it did make for faster easier going.

They passed a milestone with carved lettering indicating that the fortified settlement of Gloucester was just five Roman miles distant. Uther looked at the marching men in front of him and tried to picture the distance and how long they still needed to travel before he might change his clothing, eat a meal, and perhaps sleep before dealing with the boundless questions and requests that would be waiting for him. One Roman mile was a thousand paces, with two steps making a measured pace… he watched the closest marching warrior and counted the steps as he walked… after a few moments, he concluded that it would be a short day of travel before they arrived, which cheered him greatly.

'You appear pleased, King Uther,' said Sir Ector after noticing Uther smiling. 'There are few things to smile about on a march such as this, would you care to share what amuses you?'

'Little amuses me, Sir Ector. I was merely noticing that while they have long left our shores, the Romans' legacy still lives on in our Britain, even though it has been years since their legions marched here.' He pointed back at the milestone. 'To know where you are upon the road is valuable information, we must be sure these markers do not fade into insignificance. We would do well to continue the job that our old Roman masters started and keep the stones clear of weeds. The stone tells me that we are but a short stroll to the camp at Gloucester, and I think we shall be breaking our night fast upon meat and eggs.' The two men smiled at the thought then nudged their mounts into a trot, to pass the warriors in front of them.

Some time later, the sprawling camp covering the hills and fields about the fortress came into view. The smoke of hundreds of cooking fires drifted languidly up towards the clouds, filling the air with the smell of food being prepared. Uther looked out from the hill fort across the warrior's camp towards the southern forested hills. He could see the thin line of the road crossing the fields and disappearing into the dark treeline. He knew that beyond the forest, where it emerged and within just a few days march, lay the lands of the Dumnonii and Cornovii tribes.

As the boat left the more turbulent open sea behind and slipped into the calmer waters of the river, Igraine felt an impatient need to feel solid earth beneath her feet.

She had feared they would spend a third night at sea, something she felt would test the boundaries of her sanity beyond the point of breaking, but just as the light was beginning to fade from the sky the little boat had turned towards the coast and she had felt her spirits lift.

Everyone sprawled around her had sat up, several children jumping to their feet and all had begun to chatter excitedly as the abrupt course change had been made, and it became apparent their journey would soon be at an end. They had only resumed their places and quietened down when Gerlois had growled at them to stop clucking like excited chickens and keep out of the crew's way.

And now trees, drab looking water reeds and the deadheads of last summer's bulrushes were slipping past closer and closer to the side of the boat. It was steady for the first time in days. They were no longer rising and falling as they had when on the open sea. Now as they were passing achingly close to firm land, they could smell the earth and slightly pungent aromas of rotting reeds. Sliding cleanly through the river water with a hiss, thanks to the heaving efforts of the oarsmen, they drew closer to the distant mooring posts, the oars rattling against the side of the boat after every measured stroke.

Raising her head a little, Igraine tried hard to curb the excitement she felt, but still had to exchange furtive grins with others in her group as they whispered their questions and exclamations. They were all craning their heads to see better, like so many chicks in a nesting box she thought, but she was doing it too. Horsemen were waiting for them, a small band, their leader standing alone on the bank while the others remained mounted some way behind him. She hoped that they would be welcomed into an established encampment with food cooking and comfortable sleeping arrangements already waiting. She was as exhausted as she could ever remember being and felt she could sleep for days. She smiled down at her daughters and hugged them close.

'Oh, girls, soon this will be over, and we will get off this boat. We will be able to look after each other, comb our hair out and clean ourselves, and surely eat a proper hot meal.'

'I want hot pottage, oatcakes and roasted meat,' said Elaine, her eyes wide at the thought. She held a hand to her belly then grinned.

'I want to ride the horses,' said Morgana excitedly. She pointed to the waiting horsemen. 'Do you think they brought us all horses to ride? Do you think they brought Blackberry for me?'

'Don't be silly, Morgana,' chided Morgause, 'why would they bring your pony with them? We shall travel by cart…'

'Or chariot! I wouldn't mind driving a chariot.'

'Hush, both of you.' Igraine pulled Morgana down and hugged the girls to her again. She glanced across to Gerlois, but he hadn't heard Morgana, he was talking to the boat master, helping guide them through the narrowing river.

'Raise oars,' called the boat master, and eight dripping oars were raised overhead and then brought into the boat and stored. As the vessel came close to the bank, one of the crew jumped ashore and heaved back on a rope slowing the craft as it neared the bank where the mounted warriors waited. Another line was thrown, and the boat drawn to a final rest bumping against the bank. Igraine looked to Gerlois, waiting anxiously for permission to leave the boat, but he ignored her and instead jumped down himself. He walked to the front of the vessel and held his arms out; Morgana jumped down happily, and they walked together to the waiting warrior. As the white horse was led ashore, Igraine glanced around. There were no slaves or servants waiting. She could see no pavilions erected with dry cots, nor smoke from fires cooking, preparing hot meals. She stood, confused, there seemed to be no preparation for them at all.

'Gerlois?' she hadn't meant to call him by name, he would be angry, but she didn't understand. He glanced back at them on the boat as several other warriors joined him on the bank, and then as she saw horses brought for them she noticed the boat was drifting back out into the river.

'Gerlois… please… what is happening? Morgana… why are you taking Morgana? Gerlois, can we not come ashore and make camp? Can we not rest and cook a meal… for the children?'

Gerlois swung up onto the back of his horse, pulled Morgana up to sit behind him and called, 'You are being taken to Tintagel, Igraine. You and the girls will be safe there while I go to meet the King at Isca, we have some business to discuss that I think will be better done without you there. Morgana will accompany me.' The boat was moving quickly now, caught on a current being drawn back out to sea.