The Shadow of a King (Shadowland Book 2) (3 page)

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 courtesy. '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.

The horse moved beneath him, and he realised they were finally setting off. His attention returned to the warriors that he could see in front of him as they formed into ranks and joined the day's march. Men and women who had gathered here, drawn together in his name.

Riders had been sent out days before Uther's arrival. The fighting men and women of the Britons had been summoned from every tribe that remained at war and were still regularly raiding and clashing with the Saxon invaders. Even now, twenty-five years after the battle at Mount Badon, the different tribes could easily be distinguished by the way they dressed, or if their hair was worn long or cut short, how a group all wore beards grown long while another, calling and joking with them, were all clean shaven. Pennons and banners flew in the breeze, and he noticed that more warriors held identical shields that were decorated with the mark or sign of their clan, tribe or lord. The majority still carried an assortment of mismatched weapons and shields, with most still favouring the spear. Uther could see the horses, chariots and warriors daubed with white or blue handprints, swirls and spirals as the tribes had always done to set them apart.

His chin dropped to his chest and he snapped it back up, was he already dead, or was he somehow still alive? It all seemed like a dream he felt so removed from everything, so remote; Uther Pendragon lost this one battle, this time with consciousness, and slept.

* * *

'A woman demands to see you, we found her, riding alone… a woman, she…' The Saxon warrior who had just burst through the wooden door and ducked beneath the thatch of the entrance, now stood shuffling uncertainly upon the reed-strewn floor. He had left his spear and shield outside and was rubbing his hands together absently to dispel the cold. A simple round helmet was clamped down over his head and beneath his thick wool cloak, he wore the green tunic edged in red that marked him as from one of the northern Germanic tribes. Tearing his eyes away from his lord and protector, he glanced about at the other occupants of the large wooden hall.

As a newcomer to these shores, he had never had reason to enter this structure before. It was of far bigger construction and of a more ornate design than any of the other thirty or so huts that surrounded it in the centre of the village and was, therefore, quite a distraction. Glancing to his side, he confirmed the presence on the doorframe of brightly painted carvings. His eyes followed the twisting, moving shapes up the doorpost and then along beams, following them where they were most plentiful on the heavy beam that fronted the upper sleeping platform. Patterns and rune carvings painted in bright, vivid colours that seemed to jump and dance in the flickering firelight forcing his eyes to follow the scene. He could see bears prowling through vines and trees, wolves and deer running, battles raging and twisting and turning, and throughout, were intricate patterns and swirls.

He became vaguely aware of children's laughter, but as he looked to see where they were his eyes were stopped once more by the sight of several impressive shields leaning against the wall. The laughter sounded again, and his exploring eyes finally made it to the far corner of the hut where three small boys were watching him, distracted from their play with an old dog, its muzzle grey with age, its flapping ears were shredded in testament to its years of faithful service as a hound of war. He swallowed and tried to gather his wits, looking now for the familiar figure of his lord.

Close to the boys, two women were working a handloom; they had ignored his entrance, their heads still bent low to their tasks. Tending a large cooking pot that was suspended by a chain over the central cooking fire was another woman. She was staring at him, still frowning at the unwelcome draught that he had admitted into the hall just moments before, the waft of air having released a flurry of sparks in front of her.

The warrior realised with a sense of alarm that his mouth was hanging open and he quickly closed it with an audible click, which made the boys laugh again, they were still watching him, waiting expectantly for the exchange that was about to take place with their father. Feeling a flush of shame, he quickly turned back to his lord, who sat on a bench on the other side of the fire, watching him, waiting for an answer to a question he hadn't heard.

'I said, you found who riding alone? What are you spluttering about? What woman makes demands upon me at any time, especially now at the end of my day?' Octa scowled at the intrusion, but he was warm and content, and truth be told, he was intrigued by a woman who could so unsettle one of his men, even if it was one who still had his feet wet from the crossing. He tried to remember the warrior's name. He was one of the newcomers, come to find his place in this green land so rich in soil and plunder. He watched as the warrior fidgeted with his single, dull metal armband, after finally returning his wandering gaze.

'A woman has ridden in, Lord. She wears the black robes of the Christians and stands like a crow waiting to pluck the eyes from my face. Lord… she has no escort and rides past our guards demanding to speak with you. We turned her away, yet she will not leave and insists upon an audience without delay. She contends that you will speak with her. She talks of aiding you with a wergild, a debt of blood for which she knows you seek payment.'

Octa smiled, now even more intrigued by the distraction of this visitor. 'A woman that dresses like a crow and speaks of wergild? I shall keep my eyes covered, to be sure. However, if she is one of the Christians, I doubt she carries weapons, and if she does, then I'm sure my boys will defend their father.' He laughed, opened his arms and the boys came charging over and leapt into their father's lap. 'Bid her enter.'

The warrior ducked out, pulling the wooden door closed behind him with a bang. Octa hugged his boys and then sent them to play back in their corner, the dog wagging its tail enthusiastically at their boisterous return to its company. He smiled, watching them as they giggled happily, the dog trying to lick at their faces, its huge tattered head, nuzzling them affectionately.

The doorway creaked open again, and a slim figure, covered from head to foot in folds of black cloth ducked low to enter.
This truly is a crow that has come to visit me,
thought Octa as he made the sign of protection, the description was not unwarranted; a shiver of superstitious fear ran through him at the simile. He studied her as the crow-woman slowly stood straight, squinting slightly as her sight became accustomed to the light within the hall, quickly scanning the space about her as she threw back the hood of her cloak.

The woman's skin was pale, made almost white by the contrast of her long black hair and lips shown red from the cold of the early winter evening even in the gloom, she was quite beautiful he realised, but in an unsettling way. Before either she or Octa could say anything, the old war-hound stood and took a pace towards her, hackles rising as it gave a low, threatening growl, the ageing pet once more the hound of war as it readied to protect its charges from the intruder. For a moment the people in the hall became silent, and then the animal took another step towards her, its growl growing louder. She cast a quick glance in his direction, before raising a hand towards the dog; the index and little fingers extended while the rest of her hand clenched into a fist. Her head tipped forward and, as she stared at the dog, she made a small keening sound and slowly lowered her hand. The dog responded immediately, tail dropping, it slowly sank to the ground and lowered its head between its paws and then whimpering, it shuffled back to the protective embrace of the three boys.