The Shadow of a King (Shadowland Book 2) (31 page)

'Halwyn, Sire.' They grasped forearms and smiled grimly at each other, united in a common grisly bond, and then turned to the warrior that had pulled them up as two others arrived. Three of them, who were now looking questioningly at Uther and Halwyn, waiting for some sign of an explanation.

'You have to be careful with that hound, it's likely to hurt someone else,' said Uther.

'Who are you?' The warriors could see that neither of the men pulled to safety were Cornovii or Dumnonii as neither wore tribal colours.

'You saved our lives,' said Uther. 'We thank you and would prefer to leave you alive and unharmed. I am Uther Pendragon, High King of the British tribes; I am your King. I am going to pass back over this wall, and you are going to let me and my friend, Halwyn here do so without trying to stop us.' He glanced back down into the eyes of the snarling dog. It had finished with the fallen warrior and was now circling below them. It jumped and snapped at him as it saw he was watching. 'Neither you nor I wish to be food for the hound, so let us pass.'

'But the Duc has ordered that you and your men are to be stopped. I cannot let you leave, King Uther, I am sorry.' The warrior took hold of Uther's arms, but in the same moment that he was held, Uther sidestepped, lowered his left arm, caught the man's elbow with his right hand and turned so that the warrior tripped and fell over the side, scrabbling to hold onto Uther as he dropped away. The warrior landed heavily, close to the hound which spun quickly and took a step towards him, snapping its jaws as it barked furiously. The warrior got shakily to his feet, and Uther called out, 'Hey, your spear, catch it.' He scooped up the man's fallen spear and dropped it down to him.

'And you can go help him,' said Halwyn, pushing the other two over the edge as they peered down. They didn't expect it and fell, spinning their arms, yelling in fright and anger at the action, but they landed well and turned with impressive speed to face the war hound along with their friend. Uther and Halwyn watched for a moment as the hound leapt and the three warriors did battle. They spread out around the hound so that it growled, turned and spun around from one warrior to the other, confused as each stabbed out when its side was presented. As a spear glanced off its ribcage, it howled and turned snapping at the warrior, but he stepped back allowing one of the others to enter and stab. It would be a short-lived fight as the animal was outnumbered and unable to attack effectively one on one.

Uther turned his back on them, glanced over the side of the palisade into the night and whistled. A few moments later a tree ladder bumped up close to them, and they readied to climb over. From below came a high pitched whine and they looked back to see that the hound had finally been dealt a mortal blow. It lay, chest still heaving, a spear protruding from its chest, twitching its life blood away as all three Cornovii ran towards the closest ladder some thirty paces away.

'Go, Halwyn, you first,' said Uther and then readied to climb over.

'Wait…' Uther turned to see a young girl running towards them along the palisade walkway. Surprised, Uther saw that it was the Duc's daughter, and she was apparently alone. She walked quickly, gazing down wide-eyed at the dying war hound and the running warriors, arms held out for balance on the narrow boardwalk.

'I saw you,' she said, her words breathless from her run. 'They made me stay away from the fire by the gate, said I would get in the way, so I was crouching down over there,' - she pointed someway back down the palisade - 'when I saw you climb up away from the dog. You almost didn't make it.' She stared at Uther then back towards the warriors who were now on the ladder, climbing up towards them. 'Now they are after you and they're cross, but you did push them off, so I suppose it's to be expected.'

'Your name is Morgana, isn't it?' Uther smiled and went on as she nodded. 'I'm afraid we have outstayed our welcome here, Morgana; we have to leave. You keep out of trouble and stay away from any fighting; it will all be over soon. Oh, here…' He reached into his jerkin and pulled out the pebble she had given him on the beach just before they had boarded the boats for their quest across the sea to the Isle of Erin. 'You gave me this token to keep me safe on our quest, do you remember?' She nodded and took the proffered stone. There was little light and what there was came from the burning gate and palisade behind her, but as she looked down at the stone, he could see her smile. 'I think it is you who needs our talisman now, Morgana, to keep you safe through the coming days. It worked well for me, and now it will work well for you.' He turned and hauled himself up, over the palisade and onto the ladder. 'Stay safe, Morgana, this will all be over soon, do not fear.' He began to climb down, and she looked over the side to watch him go.

'I will keep it for protection, King Uther, but we are leaving soon, so I am not scared. I'll return the talisman to you when you have need, have no fear.' She was shoved rudely to the side as one of the warriors arrived and angrily stared down into Uther's eyes. Uther felt a momentary tremor of fear at being so close, so vulnerable and balanced as he was so high above the ground. He tried to calm his fears and continued to descend carefully, hand over hand, step by step. He watched the man smile, raised his spear and prepare to throw, but then just as he brought his arm down; Morgana came flying back into view and pushed into him, then she ran off as he cried out angrily, his spear dropping harmlessly to the side.

Uther smiled and descended the last few spans, before retreating back into the darkness of the night. Only the niggling echo of Morgana's words,
we're leaving soon
, causing him concern.

'She saved my life that night. If Morgana hadn't pushed that Cornovii warrior, he would have…'

'Please… King Uther, you must hush now. We have to leave… quietly. Put this on; we need to keep you warm.'

He knew his eyes were open, but it was difficult to see in the light cast from the small guttering candle. He felt woozy and tired, completely exhausted. Maude steadied him as he felt himself sway. She had pulled him up into a sitting position on the bed, he could see his knees and knew his feet were on the floor; it all felt odd. She was pulling something over his head, it felt like an under-tunic, but wool, not linen. It was stiff and scratchy against his skin.

'It will keep you warm my Lord, pull your arms through.' She was whispering, why was she whispering?

'If Morgana hadn't pushed that warrior out of the way, I would have been a dead man that night at Isca. Nothing else would have happened. No Igraine, no Arthur… it would have been…'

'Please, King Uther, you must be quiet. We have to leave, and we don't wish to attract the attention of the nuns. You have to stand for a moment. I'll help you up, and then you must hold against the wall while I get you into these.'

He felt her pulling him up and placing his golden torque around his neck; it felt cold and heavy. He tried to help, tried to stand, but he was so weak, and when he did make it to his feet, he swayed and his stomach felt as if it might decide to empty in some spectacular fashion, and then his head began to pound. A rush of heat flushed through him and a sheen of sweat made itself known upon his brow. Steadying himself against the wall, he looked down at the top of Maude's head. She was pulling on leggings, lifting his foot trying to pull the unyielding material up his skinny leg. He giggled, and she looked up at him, a frown upon her face. The leggings were past his feet, and she pulled them up his legs and tied them off, tucking in his tunic. He dropped carefully back down onto the bed feeling a wave of relief, and she pulled his legs out to wind linen strips about his calves.

'Why are we doing this? Where are we going?'

'Away from here. It is not safe, King Uther. I shall take you somewhere safe and then fetch the Druid, Merlyn, but we have to get away from the Abbey tonight.'

Pulling a heavy wool cloak about him, she tied it at the neck then drew the cowl over his head before heaving him back up into a standing position where he swayed once more.

'Let's go. Lean on me and please keep as quiet as you can.'

He allowed her to guide him out of the cell. Her arm was around him, lending him support as he concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, it was exhausting, but he persevered, knowing it was important to Maude and he was inclined to trust her even if he didn't truly understand why any of this was necessary. He couldn't help making noise. His breathing was laboured, and his feet were shuffling in the reeds that covered the passage floor. It sounded loud in his ears and he knew he must present a pathetic and ridiculous sight. He surely was the half-dead King. He heard himself giggle again and then managed to stifle it quickly as she cast him a frown in the low candlelight. A wave of nausea ran through him, but he kept going.

They had managed to pass down several passages when the sound of muttering voices reached them; distant at first but getting closer. There was a moment of uncertainty, and then he was being hurried off in a different direction, stumbling in the darkness until, moments later, he found himself crouching against a wall in a small room. With his head pounding and Maude's hand clamped across his mouth, he felt the urge to giggle again at the ridiculousness of the whole situation; he was still a King after all, and here he was hiding in the dark with a female warrior he hardly knew. Her breath was hot against his ear; it tickled as she breathed. The voices were getting closer until they finally passed close by, not two or three steps away, accompanying the heavy tread of four or five people… the voices were just harsh whispers, but within them he recognised the Saxon tongue.

Uther suddenly realised the seriousness of the situation; Saxon warriors were in the Abbey.

 Chapter 23 
The Druid's Well

'What do you mean, gone?' Uther gazed down into the face of the Dumnonii warrior. He was an older man with grey in his beard and a squint that probably told that his eyes were failing him. He was bleeding from a wound to his head, the blood matting his hair and soaking the wool of his cloak and tunic. He was also cradling his left arm, although Uther could not see any blood, it was probably broken. Three Dumnonii had been captured in the early morning light by one of his patrols to the south, and the news they brought was not welcome.

'The Duc has departed Isca with the main force of warriors that were encamped here.' He sounded tired and resigned to whatever fate might befall him. 'They travel to the fortress at Dimilioc where they will join with the main Dumnonii and Cornovii forces. They left us here. I have told you all that I know, King Uther. I am a loyal warrior of the Britons and have fought against Saxons, Jutes and Angles under your banners for many seasons, but I am also Dumnonii and must follow my Duc, do what he tells me, but I can inform you that he journeys to Dimilioc, it is the stronghold of the Dumnonii lands.'

Uther nodded and indicated that the warrior should rise, but the man stayed upon his knees, the two warriors that had been caught with him dropping down alongside him.

'We have been captured and fairly treated by you. Allow us to live, to leave and return to our villages. We are no threat to you and will come fight alongside you against the Saxons when you call; when you have defeated the Duc, as you surely will.'

'Releasing you will depend on how you are willing to help with a few questions. Firstly, tell me how many warriors remain within Isca?'

'There are just a few, perhaps thirty, to maintain the pretence of the fortress being occupied, they have stayed to buy time so that the Duc could make his way to Dimilioc freely.'

'But how did he escape the fortress with so many warriors? I do not understand how we did not see such a large force leaving.' Uther turned away and paced a few steps, his fists clenching and unclenching as he pictured the Duc's smiling face knowing that he was slipping away, evading conflict or capture, forcing Uther and his warriors to endure further hardships if they chose to follow him.

'The settlement here is large and not so easy to defend as you have already seen. The palisade conceals several gates that are all but hidden from your patrols. Your forces were at the gates of Isca, but the Duc could have chosen to withdraw any time he liked. And so soon after the fire was put under control at the main gate last night, the Duc became worried and gave the order to leave.'

'Thank you for your information. Your King appreciates your situation and that you have chosen to say what you have.' Uther signalled for the warrior to rise and began to turn away.

'King Uther.' The warrior stood and looked back at his two companions before continuing. 'Most of the Dumnonii and Cornovii that were questioning the Duc's decisions have now deserted him; they have been leaving over the last few days since your arrival, unwilling to cross swords with you. But the warriors that now travel on with the Duc, and also those that await him in the fortress of Dimilioc, are the most loyal to him. Those warriors within the fortress will resist, and they will fight you, and that is what the Duc is now preparing to do, the settlement of Isca is merely a trading settlement, but Dimilioc isn't for trading, it's a fortress of war.

'Go, child, I will come for you when all this nonsense is over, and the King has stopped his persecution of us.' Gerlois pulled Morgana's face close to his and wiped the tears that flowed down her cheeks to either side of her dirty cheeks with his thumbs; he was scowling as always she noted.

'I am sorry, Morgana, I know you understand little of what is happening, but all that you need to know is that we have been wronged. There is no reason to weep. Find courage in your heart and know that we shall prevail in this disagreement. We shall defeat Uther Pendragon at Dimilioc and force a peace between us. He will know that our family cannot be torn apart, that he cannot hope to humiliate me as he did and expect me to smile and nod my thanks. It is fast coming to the time when we must fight, and so you must be away from this trouble. Hold strong, child, go.'

Morgana sniffed and broke away from her father's hold to drag the coarse wool of her sleeve across her nose; she sniffed again then drew in a breath and steadied herself.

'I will be strong, Father, but I can still come with you, you do not need to send me away… please?' Morgana took hold of her father's arms again and stared up into his face, willing him to keep her close.

Gerlois scowl deepened and he pushed her arms away in irritation. 'No child. Your mother and sisters are already away from all of this, safe at Tintagel, and I have made arrangements for you to stay with the holy sisters at Laherne. The King's men will not find you there. You will be safe and when this is over, I shall come for you, it will be a matter of only a few days.'

'No, Father, I will not go, I want to be with you… please let me come, Father?' Behind Gerlois hundreds of mounted Dumnonii fidgeted silently, watching and waiting for the exchange to finish, silent in the early dawn light save the snuffling of horses and the occasional jingle of a harness.

Aware of the spectacle they were creating, Gerlois shook his daughter, only stopping when she cried out in alarm. 'Do not defy me, girl, be strong. This is no debate; I don't have the time for this. Go to Laherne and learn some obedience.' He pushed her roughly away, and she tripped backwards almost falling but was caught by the arms of a waiting warrior who lifted her up upon a horse. She didn't resist. Taking up the reins with reluctance her tears returned to fall glistening upon her cloak while she trembled and stared at her father. As the two warriors accompanying her rode away, she kicked her heels into her mount and followed, staring back, unable to stop the feelings of loss and grief at being taken from him from overwhelming her. She watched as he led his warriors along the misty road to Dimilioc and the certainty of war without sparing her a further glance.

The three Druids slipped quietly through the wet undergrowth and the yellowed, dead remains of summer bracken. They followed a path that only they could see having left the paths of man and beast some time before; they were guided now by something far more ancient. As they walked, they chanted softly, the sound falling flat in the dead air of the forest, it surrounded and protected them as it mingled with the ground mist that wafted from their path by robes that had become wet and heavy.

They walked unerringly through the trees for some time until they came across the grove. The entrance was marked by a large upright stone, its surface mottled with moss and lichen, the runes cut into the surface in a bygone age almost invisible beneath. As the three stepped past, each placed a hand upon it and then touched heart and head, muttering a blessing and a request for the living spirit that dwelt there to welcome them, to aid their searching and bless their visit.

Past the stone, the path dipped down around a stunted, gnarled elm. Tied into its branches was an assortment of rags, tokens torn from the clothing of those who travelled to worship the spirits here. The tree appeared to be rising from the forest floor in tortured agony as if desperately trying to tear its roots free from the clinging dirt with its movement frozen in an ancient time. The Druids stepped carefully past, bending low to avoid breaking the delicate thread of a spider's web that glistened with droplets of water. Dipping into the darkness of overhanging vegetation their feet found four stone steps, that once descended, finally brought them out into the sacred grove itself.

The air was still and thick as if it never felt the release of a breeze. It was fetid, ripe and pungent with the damp smells of struggling life and rotting decay. A ring of oak, elm, and holly trees marked the boundary of the grove, the dark, gloomy depths of the forest drawing outward and away as if the trees were trying to drag their roots from the soil and flee. Within the grove was a simple earthen clearing, its surface dusted with snow, at its centre was a small, almost perfectly spherical, pool, its depths as black and still as the darkest dreams of night.

Crossing to the pool, the Druids chanting became louder before stopping abruptly; they dropped to their knees at the pond's edge, and the surface rippled, droplets of water rose and danced and within moments it was as if a silent storm was lashing the pool with driving rain, yet neither wind nor rain fell.

Merlyn clapped his hands, the sound cutting through the air, all noise and movement ceased and the surface of the pool at once returned to a mirror calm. Now in silence, the three Druids raised their hands, pulled back their hoods and bent slowly forward, their faces looming up to be reflected perfectly in front of them as they closed the distance, appearing as if entering within themselves… and then the illusion was broken as noses and lips touched the surface, and they sucked noisily at the water, drawing it into their mouths then swallowing it down deep into their bodies. After a few moments, each sat back and remained motionless, kneeling, eyes closed, hands resting in their laps as the water of the grove invaded their beings.

Uther idly touched the heavy golden torc at his neck, something he would invariably do while his mind contemplated and weighed a problem. His fingers traced the smooth flow of the spiralling metal, each of the many fine twisted strands coming together to forge a whole that was far stronger and more valuable than any of its individual pieces, much like the tribes of Britain as they had been brought together to unite against their common enemies, he had often mused, but his thoughts were not upon the torc nor the united tribes this day. As his fingers came to the twin dragon heads that were formed at either end, he drew in a deep breath and sighed, dragging his eyes away from his first sight of Dimilioc. Its defences were certainly far more intimidating than the wooden stockade of Isca; there was no doubting that. He had known of the fortresses construction, but Gerlois had obviously been keeping any magnitude of the details to himself, he had spoken of Isca and Tintagel, but rarely mentioned Dimilioc.