The Shadow of a King (Shadowland Book 2) (22 page)

One of the chariots broke from the pack and rolled forward. 'King Uther has demanded that you return.' The man, standing tall upon the platform, wore Iceni blue, he was an older warrior, his exposed arms carrying many scars of battle. He pulled the helm from his head and Igraine saw that it was Sir Ector, the man Uther was known to trust above all others, save of course for the Druid, Merlyn. She felt a renewed flutter of hope rising within her chest; perhaps Gerlois could be persuaded to return. She realised that more than anything, she wanted to go back, to see Uther one more time.

'Nobody was given permission to leave while the Samhain celebrations were underway, this was understood by all. Your duty to your King is that you return, by not doing so you risk giving great offence, Duc Gerlois. We have been charged to escort you.' Sir Ector glanced to where Igraine and her daughters stood on the boat's deck and bowed his head in greeting before addressing her directly. 'My Lady Igraine. King Uther has reason to be concerned for your safety; we have been charged to escort you back to Pendragon fortress.'

Gerlois walked up onto the boat, the plank bouncing under his weighted steps, and glanced angrily towards her, then turned to speak to Sir Ector. Igraine could see that he was unhappy that Sir Ector had addressed her so openly, her husband's face wore an even deeper scowl than usual and his hand was gripping the pommel of his sword so tightly that she could see the whites of his knuckles.

'We wish no offence to King Uther, nor to you, Sir Ector of the Iceni, but we
are
leaving. My wife is in no danger, so neither you nor King Uther need fear for her. It is most unfortunate that we have had to leave, but we have a great need to return to our lands. Please offer my…'

'King Uther does not wish to have your apologies nor regrets, Duc Gerlois.
You will return to Pendragon fortress.
' This last was shouted by Sir Ector, which startled the chariot's horses making them step closer to the bristling wall of spears and shields, the warriors holding firm as the challenge hung heavily in the damp air. It began to rain harder, the sounds of raindrops bouncing from armour and shields mixing with the music of it pattering onto leaves and splashing into the river.

After a moment's brief hesitation, Gerlois voice rose above the sounds of the rain and announced decisively, '
No, we leave,
' then he called to his men, '
Board the boats.
' The wall began edging backwards to the river.

With an angry yell of, '
Damn you, Gerlois,
' Sir Ector whipped the reins down upon the back of his horses and the chariot leapt towards the wall. Behind him, the mounted warriors howled their war cries and kicked their horses into motion. Within moments, the clearing was reduced to confusion as the horses drawing the chariots hit the wall first in an attempt to break it or at least unsettle the spears, and then the mounted horses hit trying to force the wall apart. Unfortunately for Sir Ector, there hadn't been enough space to gain any speed, so the Cornovii wall was only made to step back whilst still remaining intact and stable. The wall began to push forward once more, the warriors grunting with effort, shouting and heaving and only slowing a little as one of the other chariots moved in, but it quickly became entangled with the first, making it difficult for Sir Ector to turn his chariot. Igraine could see the frustrated anger rise upon his face as he shouted at the other chariot to get clear, and then he whipped the reins down with a loud
'crack'
to drive on his own horses. Realising they weren't going anywhere with any speed, he turned and hacked down upon the upraised shields of the wall with his sword, trying to force them back while his warriors moved in to aid him.

The sounds of battle were deafening. Within the wall, warriors were shouting and cursing the horsemen and charioteers, stabbing out with their spears, aiming for the riders, but also seeking to strike the horses, trying to maim them so the mounted men and women attacking them could be dragged down. Pandemonium ensued as horses and men screamed and tribesmen from both sides cursed, spat and fought. Several fell from both sides, swallowed down amongst the madness of battle to die between a dark confusion of legs, hooves and chariot wheels. Gasping the last of their ragged breaths between gritted teeth and waves of agony as both friend and foe tripped and stamped upon them.

From the safety of the boat's deck, Duc Gerlois called out, his voice almost lost amongst the commotion.
'Please pass my regrets to King Uther. I am sure all will be well between us, but for now, we must sadly decline his request to return. Our stay at his court has been… most delightful.'
Gerlois nodded to the boat master, and orders were barked out, ropes untied, and using two of the long oars, the first of the boats was pushed towards midstream where it began to drift slowly out into the deeper, middle water. Sir Ector finally drew his chariot clear, and seeing that the Duc and his family had escaped, blew upon a horn. His men drew back from the Cornovii and the wall quickly broke apart, the warriors running to the remaining boats.

'
It didn't need to be like this, Gerlois,
' yelled Sir Ector. He drove his chariot close to the river bank.
'You are a senior member within the court of Uther Pendragon. Your quest went badly, but you would have survived, you could still survive this if you return. You do not have to set the Cornovii against the rest of the tribes; I beg of you to return.'

Gerlois said nothing; he just stared, and so Sir Ector did the same. He and his men following along the bank keeping pace with the boats as they drifted with the current. From her vantage point upon the deck, Igraine watched them as the river widened, and the distance between the two groups became greater and greater. Sir Ector, she thought, seemed genuinely saddened that they were leaving. The river flowed, and the boats were carried faster by the swirling currents past reed beds and water birds. Silence filled the air save for the soft movement of water, the patter of raindrops, and a breeze that whispered through the reeds and the few leaves that remained upon the trees that overhung the flow close to the bank.

After some time, the horses reached a part of the riverbank where a small stream and marshy ground blocked their way. Unable to pass further, they halted and stood watching, horsemen and chariots gathered closely together until the river bent around and they were lost from sight.

Igraine drew her daughters to her, and they huddled together silently in what little shelter the vessel offered. They sat listening to the
chop, chop, chop
of the water slapping against the high prow as it began to meet small waves head-on. As the river widened before becoming open sea, oars were lowered, and the steady beat of a drum began to keep them in time. It echoed over the water, a sound as flat and featureless as the day. She realised it was going to be a long and uncomfortable trip back to the home settlement of Isca, at the heart of the Dumnonii lands where Gerlois ruled. Or perhaps, she reasoned, if the seas were fair, then they would sail past the Dumnonii moorings on the coast of Sumorsaete, and would instead travel further down the coast to beach at the small fortress and settlement upon the Isle of Tintagel in the lands of the Cornovii. Gerlois ruled over both tribes, but Igraine knew that Gerlois felt most safe and secure at the more easily defendable headland upon the coast, and with the current mood of her husband being so strange, it made more sense that Tintagel was their destination. For now, as the boat began to move with the rise and fall of bigger waves, and a stiffening breeze tugged at the big square sail that the crew had raised, she just wished she were back in the cart, or better still, at Pendragon fortress where for a short spell, life had finally seemed to be making a turn in her direction. Although, perhaps that had merely been her fancy, just an elusive part of a festival that everybody knew was filled with all manner of spirits and their trickeries.

The mood within Pendragon fortress had been sombre since Uther had risen early to hear that the Duc, his Cornovii, and of course Igraine had left. The Cornovii, allied strongly with their Dumnonii neighbours, were one of the larger, wealthier tribes and important to Uther's efforts to form one strong, unified nation that could hold back the forces of invaders like the Saxons and indeed the Romans, should they ever return however unlikely that may seem. It infuriated Uther that the Duc had left, and especially, he had to admit, that he had taken Igraine with him. There was clearly no affection between the Duc and his wife… but still. He knew he shouldn't dwell upon her but it was difficult, he had never felt like this before about anyone. He was consumed with an aching, angry desire to be with her, an emotion he reasoned, which could only be love, which in turn also made him angry that he should be struck so and at such a time. Added to his discomfort, was a chill draught that chased about his hall despite the numerous fires and hangings stretched across every opening. It was a day filled with frustration and reflection, and so his mood was as dark as the cloudy rain washed day.

When, late in the evening, Merlyn entered, followed by a wet and bedraggled group of Druids, the scowl dropped from Uther's face for the first time since waking that morning to be replaced by a smile. 'Why, Merlyn, you and your kin are most welcome, enter, enter. Does the presence of Druids in my hall once more tell me that you have already placed the stones?' Uther studied the small group. There were four newcomers, dripping wet, shivering, and each casting longing glances towards the various fires in the hall.

Uther waved the shivering group of Druids towards one of the fires. 'Please, warm and dry yourselves. I am sure we can find some dry robes from somewhere.' They turned to Merlyn seeking his approval, and he also muttered that they should warm themselves and pushed them forward before moving to Uther's side.

'No, Uther. The stones are not yet at Stanenges, even Druids cannot move that quickly, but they are being moved as we speak.

'Moved?' questioned Uther, 'How are they being moved this time, will they fly?'

Merlyn tapped the side of his nose and gave a twinkling grin. 'They will arrive in time and be placed correctly, ready for the sacred rites that will be concluded upon the festival of Alban Arthan, the shortest day and longest night of the year. The first of these rites will be performed as the golden sickle cuts the rope of mistletoe that binds the largest stone. Other rites will be performed by different Druids over the following days. However, I am afraid that you will not be permitted to bear witness to any of these events… but then, I do not think you would want to be there anyway,' he concluded in a lower tone.

'I have given up the thought of ever being made truly welcome by Druids, please do not fret.' Uther smiled at Merlyn, and the Druid frowned.

'You are invited to attend the final rites of fire, which will be held four days after Alban Arthan.' Merlyn's face broke into a smile as he said this, his thick grey beard bunching up below the crinkling of his eyes. 'Very welcome you will be, and it's my favourite part… it gets a good deal warmer with all that fire.'

'Alban Arthan… I am sure we will be delighted to be there, Merlyn, but the longest night, the solstice, is well within the dark times of winter. The God, Cailleach, will be powerful in his rule by then. It will be cold, wet and inhospitable upon the grassland, and that will be if the snows have still held. Will you be making preparations to receive us, as well as do all that is necessary for your stones?'

'Two great halls are going to be constructed, King Uther,' called one of the visiting Druids. She rose from where she had been crouching by the fire. Uther noticed that her dark brown robes had begun to steam and that she had unbound her long hair to help it dry. The effect of the mist that shrouded her left her transformed, lit as it was by the flames of the fire from behind. She had taken on an ethereal quality. Whether she was aware of it or not, Uther didn't know, but it quite took his breath away and once again humbled him slightly to the mystery and sacredness of the Druids. She was probably no more than twenty summers and appeared to him like some goddess from the old times. Moments before, as the group had entered wet and cold, she had given the impression of being closer to fifty and almost crone-like.

Uther nodded his thanks and then leant forward to speak again to Merlyn. 'Is it necessary for you to be involved in these rituals personally? I have an undertaking that I believe might require your help.'

Merlyn's smile became a frown, and he moved closer to Uther, his voice dropping to match Uther's lower tone. 'What do you mean, an undertaking, what sort of undertaking? What are you planning, Uther?'

'Earlier today, I sent Sir Ector after Duc Gerlois and his party. They are to request that the Duc returns at once. I have taken about all I am prepared to take from the Duc. I have found his surreptitious departing to be most offensive, especially in light of recent events upon the quest. I am sure you will agree that it would be far better that we reconcile our differences here, rather than allowing this latest act of disrespect for his King to cause us to clash.'