The Shadow of a King (Shadowland Book 2) (5 page)

Four shadow-walkers had set out from Octa's village. Slipping silently and unseen through the forest and fields with the darkness of the night wrapped tightly around them. They had travelled through three nights towards the tribal lands of the Britons, easily slipping past their own patrols and sentries and passing like mist through tribal villages and sleeping communities. On towards the West and the disputed border with the native Britons they travelled, always by night, faces blackened, their clothing no more than a collection of rags. They rested by day, tucked away unseen amongst the roots and leaves of the forest. Only once they reasoned they must be close to the end of their journey did they emerge from the darkness, to locate their final destination.

Several hours before dawn on the third day of their travels, they abducted a young woman from her path as she walked between two large communal longhouses. They swarmed from between the trees like spreading smoke to envelop her and then silently drew her back into the shadows. She fought because that was her nature, and it troubled the shadow-walkers, fearing the small sounds of the scuffling would be heard and bring others to her aid.

'Hold her,' the hissing voice was urgent with the need to remain unfound. The girl was bucking and kicking in the arms of one of the walkers like a snatched pig and would probably be squealing as much as a pig if their leader didn't have his hand firmly clasped over her mouth. Grasping her head to stop it jerking, he bent down to whisper in her ear.

'Silence child, we are the spirits of the night, we are the ones that fill your darkest dreams, but we will not harm you if you hold still.' She continued to struggle, and he gripped her head even tighter, then lifted it and pounded it on the forest floor three times. 'I… said… hold… still… or I will hurt you. I will cut your throat, we will drink your blood, and you will die this night and never reach the Shadowland.' She stopped her struggles and gazed up past his hand that was still held across her face. Her tear-filled eyes reflected her distress, and he could feel the wet of tears and slimy snot on the palm of his hand.

'We seek the holy well that must be close to here. The place where your Druids gather.' He was aware that his speech would be strange and accented to her, the words these Britons used felt cumbersome and uncomfortable in his mouth, so he spoke slowly. 'Do you know the place I speak of? Is it near?'

The girl let out a small mewling sound and then nodded. She screwed her eyes shut, gathering her resolve and then stared up at him once more. 'We will not harm you girl, not if you place us onto the right path. How far is this place? How might we find it?' The hand slowly relaxed and lowered from the girl's face, and she drew in a breath before snorting back a sob.

'It is close, this place,' her voice was high pitched and shaking, the words spat out quickly in her haste. Her head turned from side to side looking for the others she couldn't see but knew were there in the darkness. 'Don't hurt me… please.'

'The direction, where do we go from here… quickly.'

'Take the northern road, towards Prae Tor. That's the big hill you can see in the distance. The Druids' grove is upon the western slope… please, please don't hurt me.'

The Sceadugenga slowly stepped back from the girl, holding her frightened gaze until the shadows set their cloak around him and he was swallowed by the darkness of the forest.

For a few beats of her heart, the girl lay unmoving, still straining to see the man, not quite sure if he was still there or not and still expecting the stinging slice of a knife at any moment - yet none came. Cautiously, she moved her head from one side, and then to the other, searching the darkness for the men, or spirits or whatever they were, but it was only the shadows and gloom that stared back. A breeze moved through the trees rattling the branches above her and from far off she heard the remote, hooting call of an owl. Fear and relief overwhelmed her, and she collapsed back in a fit of sobbing, finally able to believe that she was still to live.

Some short time later, when she had blundered through the darkness scratching herself badly on branches and bushes, and she had made it back out onto the path, she looked but there was no sign of her mysterious captors, they had disappeared completely. Wrapping her thin shawl about herself to ward off the shivers of superstitious fear as well as the cold, she set off towards the few clustered huts that made up the settlement she had been taken from, not quite sure how she was going to explain her experience.

They came across the pool just as the sky was beginning to lighten to the east. It was as the girl had said, on the western slope of the large hill, set within a small copse of trees. Approaching cautiously, as was their nature, they identified a small hut that was home to the few Druids who tended the pool and, believing that the occupants still slept they made their way towards their journey's end guided by the sound of trickling water.

As they entered the open glade between the trees, they were greeted by an abrupt drop in temperature, and a thin mist that was covering everything, grass, rocks, and water. It swirled about their legs and lapped against the rocky foot of the hill like water in a bowl, twisting and turning languidly, driven by unseen forces that they couldn't begin to comprehend. This was an ancient place.

Cautiously, their leader, a man named Coenwulf, took a few steps forward, probing out with his foot in search of the water's surface. It was hard to distinguish where the water began, and the grass of the glade ended. Even to their night trained eyes, everything was shrouded in near complete darkness, the mist obscuring any features they might have been able to see. The approaching dawn was delayed in this holy place by the surrounding trees, trees which the more they looked seemed to be reaching out across the mist-shrouded surface of the pool as if trying to protect the deep and sacred waters beneath.

'Get this done brother,' muttered the walker closest to Coenwulf. 'Let us leave this place for something sits wrongly with me here. It may be that we offend the Gods with this task, I…' The man shivered and glanced about him. 'I don't like being here. Just throw the potion. Throw the whole bottle in and we can leave.' He watched the shadowed figure of Coenwulf unwrap the small bottle that he had been carrying ever since being entrusted with it by Octa. As he drew back his arm to throw, a noise caused both men to hiss and crouch. Their two companions who had stayed on the approach path to guard against being disturbed dashed in looking for the source of the sound. It had been a low reverberating tone as if a large bell had been softly struck. For a few moments they said nothing, waiting for the bell-like sound to return or something to happen, but nothing did.

'What was that?'

'Shhhh.' Coenwulf held up a hand for his men to be silent, then crouched down to pat the ground around him.

'What are you… you dropped it?'

'I dropped it, yes.' Locating the bottle he held it up to the night sky, moving it around trying to see the liquid inside. He shook it by his ear. 'The top fell out, but most of the liquid remains.' Turning, he threw the bottle out into the centre of the mist and was rewarded with a 'plop' as it hit the surface.

'Most of the liquid remained? Little dropped out? If the top wasn't in there then…'

Another tone filled the glade, and without another word, the four shadow-walkers backed towards the edge of the trees and melted into the gloom of the forest.

Moments later, three Druids rose from the mist and walked to where the bottle had been dropped. They were older men, bearded with long untidy hair and dressed in long faded robes. They moved with an unhurried ease, the mist parting with a wave of a hand to reveal the stopper from the glass bottle, a bunched piece of leather still wet from its former contents. Popping the leather into his mouth, one of the Druid chewed it, washing it around making his cheeks bulge as he tried to identify what had been the contents of the bottle and then spat it out. The three huddled together and after a few moments talking in low murmurs they began to chant. The deep chime sounded once more, just as the first rays of sunlight lit the topmost branches of the trees above them.

 Chapter 5 
A Return to Glastening

'The King returns… the King is coming back… the King, the King, the King!' A flock of nuns ran in, to gather around the gates at Glastening Abbey, eager for a glimpse of the small procession as it approached across the rolling hills. There appeared to be almost a hundred horsemen in the assemblage, along with several carts, chariots, and fluttering pennons. The larger part of the group was stopping to gather some way off while a smaller contingent and one of the carts continued on up towards the Abbey and were just passing the sentinel elm and its cloud of angry crows. The day was grey and cold, a stiff wind causing the riders to hunch in their saddles.

'Do you see him? Does he ride or is he stricken?' The nuns craned their necks, seeking for some further detail to brighten an otherwise dreary day and a dull, monotonous life.

The lead riders carried banners, which could now be seen as white dragons on a dark red background that, as they got closer, appeared to be spitting their flames with each snap of the breeze. The intrusion of the riders as they passed by the sentinel tree sent the crows up in a flurry of feathers to circle above them cawing and complaining.

A bell began tolling its dirge from high in the wooden bell tower, and the sound of annoyed shouting could be heard from inside the Abbey and, as more nuns came out to run across the yard, chickens flapped and squawked to get out of their way. The nuns, as they gathered about the gate, were doing a good imitation of the clucking chickens as they gossiped, chattered and called to each other; the approaching visitors a very welcome respite from the tedious regulation of Abbey life. Morgana, Abbess of Glastening, arrived, hushing and shushing them as she also tried to see some detail of what was approaching.

'Sisters, calm yourselves. Kindly recall that you are daughters in the service of our Lord, not maidens seeking ribbons at the Samhain festival.' She clapped her hands, and the nuns gathered around her appearing suitably chastened and even more like chicks surrounding a mother hen. 'Prepare the King's chamber, and we must be ready lest he has been struck down by some injury upon the field of battle.' Several nuns dashed back inside the Abbey while the rest scuttled behind Morgana, to await their guests.

The first of the horses came through the great wooden arch and entered the old Roman courtyard, the sound of their hooves clattering and echoing around the stone enclosure. Sir Ector was third in line, he pulled his horse to the side and dismounted with no little difficulty and stood swaying before Morgana. He appeared to be stiff and even wearier than the last time she had seen him. Blood splattered the front of his tunic, and he had a dirty rag tied about a wound on his forearm which he favoured, cradling it protectively with his other arm.

'Morgana, a good day to you.' He glanced at her then around the Abbey, clearly unhappy about being back so soon. Stretching his back he gestured towards the open cart that was still creaking and struggling up the small incline towards them.

'Our King is not well again; we know not what afflicts him. He took a small wound on the field of battle, a gash to his neck, lots of blood, but it did not sever his lifeline. If that had been cut, we would never have stopped the bleeding.' He rubbed at his sore arm, then drew a breath and looked her in the eyes. 'The battle was long and especially tiring for him, but whatever it is that ails him now, it is more than just fatigue and a scratch to the neck.' Sir Ector turned at the sound of skittering hooves, but it was nothing, one of his men was calming his horse, the huge animal was highly stressed after the recent battle and obviously unhappy to be within the enclosed courtyard once again; he turned back to Morgana.

'We are both now aware that Merlyn had him under some sort of enchantment, but whatever it was, it has evidently deserted him. The Druid told us to bring him back here and place him directly into your care.' Sir Ector leaned closer: 'Morgana… Uther is dying again. I don't know if you can save him this time. I believe it may indeed be more of a kindness to allow him to pass in some comfort and peace.' The cart finally arrived, and the two stepped to the side and watched as Uther was unloaded and taken into the Abbey under the guidance of several nuns and the grim, sad figure of Maude, the King's protector. Morgana noticed that Uther's armour had already been removed, but that he still wore the dirty stained clothing that he had dressed in prior to battle. His eyes were closed, and he looked as white as the thin shroud with which one of the nuns was trying to cover him, he looked, very much, as if he may already be dead. Laid out on a simple wooden plank, his arms had fallen to the sides and were swaying with the movement of the board; he made a pitiful sight.

'Hurry sisters. Place the King in his former chamber; I shall attend him shortly.' Morgana turned back to Sir Ector. 'You may leave here now, your duty has been done. The King has now been returned into our hands, and we shall care for him. Take your men, your battles, and your blood and leave this holy place.'

Sir Ector took a deep breath, and after a moment smiled and shook his head slightly as if deciding against a parting remark of his own. He and Morgana had never seen eye to eye, and that was not about to change now. He turned and accepted his horse's reins from one of his men, and taking a firm hold of the saddle's pommel, heaved himself back up whilst shouting,
'Mount!'
The sound echoed around the confined space as Sir Ector, followed by his men, turned his horse around towards the gate and spurred it into motion, out into the cold afternoon air to be mocked once again by the crows.

'Lay him upon the cot… carefully sisters, carefully. He has taken enough knocks and offences to his person. We shall care for him now as befits our King.' Morgana watched as the two nuns began to remove the King's soiled garments, being careful to treat their King with the care and reverence he was due. Sir Ector's men had already been removed the heavy mail vest, but they cut his tunic and surcoat away revealing his linen camisia, the thin undergarment was soaked with dried blood and stuck to his skin. A bowl of water was called for and then placed on the floor beside the cot; a cloth was used to dribble water onto the camisia until it gradually relinquished its hold upon the King's body. The wound itself had stopped bleeding some time past, yet it still appeared red and angry, and when probed it was seen to be leaking a clear, slightly cloudy fluid.

Morgana inspected it, touching and prodding the livid flesh before sniffing at both the wound and then the King's breathe, taking notice of his white complexion and slow breathing as she did. 'We must cleanse the wounded flesh, and if it continues to weep so, then we may be required to cauterise it with a hot iron. For now, use fresh urine to bathe it and then apply a honey salve. We must keep the evil humours at bay.'

'Yes, Abbess.' The nuns continued, gently removing the soiled linen, cleaning the thin, lifeless body with the wet cloth. Morgana noticed Maude standing by the side of the door. The female warrior appeared lost and uncertain of what she was doing there in the cell.

'You do not have to be here, we can care for the King, he is in the hands of God; you have done all you can for him.' For a few moments the girl didn't move, but then she turned towards Morgana and shook her head.

'He was in my care. The battle was finished, he… he did not seem to be so badly hurt.' She shook her head as if to clear it. 'I was assigned to him, and I shall not leave his side. Do what you will to make him well, I will not get in your way, but I am not leaving.'

Morgana frowned. 'As you wish.' She turned back to the nuns. 'I shall prepare a hot infusion; we shall attempt to improve the King's vigour and rekindle the flame of his health. Let us give our King the very best care, sisters. And pray for him as you work, our King now needs our prayers to guide him through this terrible time.' Morgan ignored the King's protector and watched as the nuns worked, and as she did, she smiled, it had taken a little time and no little manipulation, but Uther Pendragon was now back in her care.

The first few weeks of the King's return to Glastening Abbey passed with Uther seemingly unaware of the world about him. His battered and weakened body lay in the damp cell and was cared for by the nuns who cleaned, fed and prayed over him day and night. However, while his body lay still, his mind wasn't bound by the tortures of his flesh. Memories and dreams plagued his spirit, transporting him through a bewildering series of events and improbable dialogues. Some of his past experiences returned to be lived once more, such as his first contact with the sword Excalibur, handed to him wrapped in a dirty cloth by Merlyn and then thrust once more deep into a block of stone to await another. The incredible jolt of bonding with the weapon was relived once again and evoked such a strong emotion that his body had jumped and twitched, scaring the nuns who had been praying at his side. Of course, he was unaware of the distress he had caused his carers and his body had calmed quickly as the dreams moved on so that once again, he was holding his newborn son up to the first light of dawn knowing he must give him up; the still body of Uther Pendragon wept.

Laughter, tears, and screams of anger filled his mind. Flashes of colour, looming faces and flocks of crows, always there were crows. Sorrow and loss overwhelmed him as he learned of the death of his closest friend. How could it have happened? Once again he agonised over the mystery of his friend's death. Oh, Cal… He had found him lying on the pile of sleeping furs, Cal's body slick with blood, so much blood. It looked as if someone had entered the sleeping shelter and speared him where he lay, yet the guards at the door had not let anyone pass, and there was no way an enemy who was set upon murder could have entered unseen. It was one of the greatest mysteries of his time. Yet, only Uther had known of his friend's nocturnal life, when Cal's mind and spirit had travelled in the body of a wolf. It had been the wolf that had been killed, Uther knew that, but somehow the blow had also killed the body of Cal. Uther had never managed to get over Cal's death, even though it was just one death amongst so many that he had witnessed over the years.

Strange hallucinations began to plague him. Evil spirits that laughed and teased him as they tried to pull him towards dark and forbidding places. Fear and panic overwhelmed him as he struggled desperately attempting to break free, and when he did and made to run it felt as if his legs were soft and weak and he found it impossible to place one foot in front of the other. This dream, of course, faded as all dreams eventually did, yet this was sleep not easy to awaken from, and another quickly replaced each wondrous, terrible or delirious dream.

Once, he felt himself completely awake, high in the wooden watch tower of Tintagel fortress. Waves were pounding on the cliffs far below, and a breeze was strong and salty as he gazed out over the great expanse of the sea towards the distant land of Erin. He knew it was there, beyond where the moon shimmered and the clouds gathered low on the horizon. He could tell that Igraine wasn't here, knew she wasn't in Tintagel anymore, for some reason the remembrance of her passing came as a renewed shock, overwhelming him as the grief hit him like a solid hit to his chest and he felt himself fall, out of the window, down through the cold, dark, wet air towards rocks that rushed up to greet him. Yet before he met the ground, his mind turned itself inwards once more, and a Druid was squatting on a rock staring at him, cackling and pointing as Uther swayed upon weak, uncertain legs.

'Thou art the Pendragon.' As the Druid spoke, Uther's gaze was drawn to his lips, wet and red, drawn back in a toothless mocking grin. Small flecks of spittle and acorns erupted with each word, and Uther felt himself step back, 'Thou art the Pendragon, tis true, yet for now, thou art but a half-dead King.' Cackling laughter faded into an uncertain distance as Uther sank away to be embraced once more by his sorrow and his grief.