The Shadow of a King (Shadowland Book 2) (7 page)

'Your plan is sound, Uther. I shall support your codes of honour in every way that I can. The Druids are with you, you know that. However, I have a small embellishment that I think will have your blessing.'

Uther frowned, uncertain where this Druidic embellishment might take him and was about to object, but Merlyn waved his concern away and smiled. 'Fear not, Uther. All is as it is meant to be. You speak for the minds and hearts of our people while I shall speak for the spirit of the land and for the Druids. I am merely seeking to weave together all that is important to everyone here, along with all that is necessary to the spirits in the Shadowland. To bring everything together… all so that the wheel may keep on turning as it is meant to turn.' Merlyn started down the ladder, catching and hitching up his blowing robes, so they didn't trip him. Halfway down he stopped and glanced back up at Uther.

'Upon Ynys Mon, we recently completed the rites of oak and mistletoe and have discovered a great necessity, one that can benefit our people and also the spirits. It is this to which I shall address the gathering, so fear not.' He grinned up at Uther.

'As you usually do, you speak in riddles, Merlyn. Yet, I trust you like I trust no other. Let us join with our Council. It should, at the very least, be an interesting meeting.'

'It should indeed, Uther, It should indeed.'

The meeting hall of Pendragon Tor was large as befitted a King. At its centre blazed a large fire, while shields, lances, and a large boar's head decorated the walls. Flickering torches had been set at regular intervals about the hall so that it was well lit, but also smoky. As Uther entered with Merlyn by his side, his attention was immediately drawn to the far side of the hall where twenty-six men, each dressed in very different styles that ranged from animal skins and coarse wool to oddments of both old Roman armour and newly fashioned plate and leather made by the tribes themselves. They were talking, arguing, shouting and laughing. Uther approached the table where they were all gathered, and they stood and called their welcomes. Uther smiled, and greeted each, in turn, moving about the table until he was face to face with a man he had only met briefly on two separate occasions.

'Duc Gerlois, welcome.'

'My Lord King.' Gerlois brought his fist to his chest in a Roman style salute, and then gestured to the table. Why is it round?'

Uther smiled and walked around the huge round table to where his own place had been marked with a chair slightly larger than the others. He sat and then ran his hand over the smooth grained surface, delighting in the rich, solid feel of the wood beneath his fingers. 'You don't like my new table, Duc Gerlois?'

The others took their places as the Duc answered.

'I did not say that I didn't like it, King Uther, I merely ask why it is round?' He also stroked his hands over the shining surface, as polished as a pool of winter ice. 'I have seen many fine tables, and indeed, I have one at Tintagel that will easily sit twenty people. This, however, is the first I have seen that is round. Indeed, if we were to sit here and feast then it might be somewhat difficult to reach the platters at the centre.' He smiled at the others seated about him, and there was laughter and several similar comments.

The assembled tribal leaders, or Lords as was the more common title these days, were an extremely colourful and diversified group of people. Gerlois, the newcomer in the group, as he had rarely attended meetings, was a man in his late forties. Once a warrior of some renown, he was somewhat overweight in these his later years. His deep, ruddy complexion was brought about by his love of the deep red wine from across the sea and was covered by a full dark beard that spilt down across a broad chest and rotund belly, he had a habit, Uther noted, of carrying a constant scowl.

Uther banged on the table with the flat of his hand to bring the group to order. 'This, my Lords, is no ordinary feasting table, it was built for a far weightier task than merely displaying food. No, I instructed my craftsmen to construct this table, not for meals, but so that we may sit as equals to discuss the weighty business of building and defending our Kingdom.' Uther gazed about at the twenty-seven men seated around the huge table. 'Each of you represents one of the great tribes of the Celtic nation of Britain. You are the tribal lords, and you have placed me as the high lord, the Pendragon.' There were murmurs of agreement from around the table.

'As you well know, I was raised amongst the Iceni, was placed in their care by my father, King Constantine, so that I would be hidden from his enemies, while my brother, Ambrosius was raised across the water amongst the Romans. As the Pendragon, the Lord of Lords, I now have no one tribe of my own, other than you, the representatives of all the tribes who sit at this table.' He stood up and adjusted his sword, Excalibur, which hung at his side, and walked slowly around the gathered lords.

My wish, when we sit here at this Council table, is that we sit as close to being equals as is possible. I am no Caesar and nor do I desire to be. I have no wish to rule this land alone without your unbiased council. My Lords, you each bring many years of experience as tribal leaders, and so I ask that when we, the leaders of the tribes, gather here… ' - he slowly turned, looking each man in the eye - '… that when this Council is assembled, no single person is placed at its head, for this table… has none. Here we each must be able to speak with equal status without fear of creating offence. Here, at this round table, no one man can be better, no greater status will be given to any one of us for holding larger lands, or leading a stronger or richer tribe, here there shall be no precedence, not even for me, your King. Each of us must be able to speak as an equal without fear of retribution.'

Uther stopped pacing once he had returned back to his own chair, but remained standing, his hand resting on the hilt of Excalibur. He noticed Sir Ector, leader of the now landless Iceni since the Saxons robbed them of their domains, was sitting a little straighter in the chair beside him to his right, while Merlyn, as representative of Ynys Mon and the Druid Council, was smiling and nodding happily in the chair to his left.

'It is my wish that at this great table, the path of our peoples can be planned using free thought and free speech, with honour, with courage, and with dignity.' Once again he took a moment to look around the table and placed a hand on Sir Ector's shoulder.

'Now I know that is possibly asking a lot of you all… considering that according to the Romans we have a history of being a somewhat callous, vicious and warmongering people.' This brought some laughter and noise as the table was banged with fists and knives. 'Yet this is my wish as your King, and I hope that you can all see the wisdom in this action. We must act as one people in our common fight against the invaders with each of us playing his part if we are to survive. We must think as one people and become one force. We are many tribes, yet we are all one people, we are Britons, and these other people who have arrived from across the sea are attempting to overrun and conquer us. Let us work together and see how this might be stopped. Let us find a way for our people to be strong and able to reclaim our lands once more.'

There were renewed calls of support and agreement from all around the great table as Uther retook his seat.

'And so to our first order of business, my Lords, let us each report on what is greatest in our hearts and most eager upon our lips. Let us start with you, Duc Gerlois.'

'The first Council of the Lords is spoken about often,' said Morgana, interrupting Uther's thoughts. 'I know it was where the tribes resolutely became one nation and spoke with one voice. It must have been extremely problematic before that meeting.'

Uther looked up at Morgana as she held the bowl out for him. He noticed Maude sitting in the shadows behind her; the girl must have slipped in while he was talking, he hadn't noticed her, his mind so distant as it travelled the misty roads of his past. She seemed happy to see him awake, and he tried to smile at her. Leaning forward, he sipped from the rough earthen bowl Morgana was holding and felt the warm liquid ease a path down his dry throat, the fragrant steam tickling his nose.

'It was almost impossible before these meetings. Every Lord, who had called himself a King, before we drew the tribes together had his own ideas about how things should be done; there were so many differences and feuds between the tribes. Our warriors couldn't mount any meaningful defence; we couldn't gather a significant number of warriors from different tribes together to meet a strong enemy. I was their King, the Pendragon, yet at that time, I was still trying to persuade a group of different tribes to come together. That table… it was simply a large round table, yet it made our people one.' Uther coughed, and it was a few moments before he could speak again.

'It was Merlyn that really gave that Council a purpose at that meeting. All because of an event that had taken place several years before;
The Night of the Long Knives
, as it was known.' Uther coughed and felt a wave of dizziness flow through him. He closed his eyes and felt himself drift back into a sleep filled with memories of the past. Once again he was a boy sitting by the flickering flames of the huge central fire in the meeting house back in his village, surrounded by his family and friends. Calvador was beside him, and he could feel the rise of excitement and awe as the bard who had arrived at the village earlier that day began the telling of his story, arms waving sending his shadow climbing the wall like a great, dark spirit, his eyes flashing around to include everyone in his tale. This bard was good, better maybe than most that had visited the village, but any bard, good or bad, was cause for the villagers to congregate and be entertained, but this bard was an exceptionally good one…

 Chapter 7 
Night of the Long Knives

The bard was an older man with grey in his long beard, which he wore twisted together in a thick plait. To the amusement of the children and many in the room it was decorated with any number of sticks, bones, and shiny things. A mass of wild, unkempt hair sprouted from his head, giving the appearance that it had a life of its own. It floated and flowed in waves and clumps and through the flickering light of the fire, it seemed as if a cloud had been attached to his head.

A Druid trained upon Ynys Mon through twelve long years of study; this bard had served his time and some. He had travelled through the tribal lands for more than twenty years since leaving the island, practising and perfecting his craft.

Jumping and spinning to gather their attention, he had called his introductions and given news and greetings from the tribes and villages through which he had travelled, and now he was promising to tell a tale to entertain all those who had assembled and were now suitably hushed, save for the passing of ale and mead and a few nervous whispers. As the bard stood and raised his arms all became even quieter. He turned a slow, full circle to view his gathered audience and to signal that he was ready to begin.

'Tonight my friends, I bring you a story that you may think that you know well, but it is a tale that needs repeating lest we all forget. For tonight I shall tell you an account that truly took place, I offer no invention. I shall tell you a story of trust broken, of the hope for a peace destroyed. This is a story of black-hearted murder and slaughter. Tonight… I shall recall… the Night of the Long Knives.

You may well recall from other telling's that the party of King Vortigern had travelled long and hard for many days through forest and tribal lands to reach the agreed meeting place. An assignation with the Saxons to end the fighting between our peoples, to talk of truce and friendship. But as they neared the end of their journey, they began to walk more slowly as if their feet had become heavy. Their heads were bent low against the constant wind and rain that drove across the wet, open, desolate moors of the middle-land, this was the final stage of the journey before they would arrive at their destination.

King Vortigern and the Britons had risen early from their overnight camp on that last morning before the sun had risen and given light to their path. They set out across the moors and now their horses and the carts laboured hard across the hilly ground of the middle-land. Forty carts filled with all the materials necessary to build a hall and with food enough for a great feast to celebrate the new union. Yet, as they neared, each man and cart were moving no faster than they had to, for they marched carrying dread and anxiety, for it was a meeting few in the party wished for or had faith in, yet they followed their King.'

The bard shrunk in on himself and plodded slowly around the floor; his face creased in agony and despair, his back bent is if crippled by the heavy burden he carried. After two circuits of the room he straightened.

'The negotiations had long been discussed, riders from both sides had travelled back and forth between King Vortigern and the Saxon Lord, Hengist, many times over several cycles of the moon, discussing the details of the peace, the location for the meeting on neutral ground and the Saxons' demands for metals, food and land. For Vortigern, these final negotiations would take place with a desperate hope that a meeting of our two peoples would bring a final peace to our troubled land, yet it was a meeting that many had cautioned against, and so the King's party travelled slowly, carrying heavy hearts.'

The bard turned and pointed his finger around at his captivated audience, the grimy digit ending close to Calvador Craen's nose. Cal leant back into Usher, and they both fell back into several other boys of the village, people laughed, and the old bard cackled before leaping up and spinning around, his long grey robe flapping.

'Four hundred and twenty-eight warriors made that journey with their King, walking with hope in their hearts, but fear squirming in their bellies. The King and the warriors of the tribes had fought the Saxons for many years, yet that summer the battles with the Saxons had been especially fierce, and many warriors had been slain on both sides of the shield wall. Since the summer sun had cooled and the chill of winter was first felt, the Saxons had been sending emissaries who talked of a time of peace, they wanted a meeting so that a border could be drawn, a border that would be honoured and never crossed by either side.'

The bard halted his tale and once again looked around at the gathered tribesmen, a look of disgust finally contorting his features as his voice rose. 'But, those cunning and conniving Saxons should never have been trusted, he was warned by so many, yet King Vortigern believed he had to trust them, that there was no other way to save his people. He had already taken Hrotwyn, daughter of Hengist, to be his second wife, hoping that the union would bring an end to the hostilities, yet even that had not been enough for the two peoples to find a reconciliation or cool the Saxon's hunger for land. The fighting and raids had barely paused long enough for the wedding celebration. Some say that, in the end, it was the loss of his son, Vortimer, that finally brought the King on this journey and this desperate attempt for peace. His son's death had robbed him of all appetite for war or even for revenge; there had been so much blood spilt and he knew that somehow… it had to stop.'

Once again the bard paused in his tale. The central fire crackled and spluttered as it shifted, embers rolling and logs settling. It gave a good heat to the hall as the cold night whispered at the walls and the birds and animals nestled, rustling overhead in the thatch. The bard slowly began to stride around the fire, dragging his feet, head dipped low as if he too were walking with the exhausted, doomed warriors.

'On… and on… they trudged, as the wind tugged at them and the rain left them sodden. Across the moors, over the paths in the high hills and on through the bogs towards the chosen place that had been deemed agreeable to both sides, to the old flint mines of the ancients at Stanenges.'

Once more the bard slowly walked around the fire, his head bowed low as if he were carrying the weight of the travellers' fears, then he paused and glanced up, then stood straight, took a stick from beside the fire and flourished it in the air. 'Now remember if you will, the Saxons had first come to our land at King Vortigern's invitation, can you believe that?' He stared around at the children in the front row of kneeling figures.

'Three longboats full of fierce fighting men were paid to help King Vortigern, charged to aid his warriors in pushing back the raiding Picts. To send them running, back up into the cold north, for those Picts had stolen our crops and cattle and raided our villages bringing fire and death, too many times. For their help in ridding us of the Picts, the Saxons were gifted an Island that lays off the eastern coast of the Trinovantes lands and it was theirs to call their own. Thanet it was named, which means fire in the old tongue, and there they feasted well and enjoyed the generosity of King Vortigern for several years. But once the Picts had been stung and the fighting was past, our Saxon allies became restless. More of their longboats were arriving after each winter season, and soon Thanet was found to be too small, and they began to spill across to farm on the mainland. There were now Saxon settlements where there had once been Iceni and Trinovantes villages, and so our allies became our enemies, the shield walls clashed, we fought and have been fighting ever since.'

The bard sprang around the fire swishing his wooden sword over the heads of small boys, fighting imaginary foes, he yelled and screamed his war cries until others in the hall also jumped up and called, shouted, and fought invisible Saxons. Finally, the bard sank to the floor, where he waited until the villagers had crouched back down and a calm had settled upon the hall.

'But the fighting had gone on for season after season without an end, the Saxon wasn't leaving, and peace had become all but a desperate hope as the numbers of the dead rose on each side, and so when the Saxons came suggesting peace, a meeting had been negotiated.

Once the King and his people arrived at Stanenges, the carts were unloaded, and a meeting hall was constructed on the open grassland. It was surrounded by the burial mounds of the ancients, close to their old flint mines, and there our people waited to talk peace with their despised Saxon enemies.'

The bard halted his tale once more, his bushy grey eyebrows rising as he held a finger high. 'Another curious thing,' his voice rose to a high, questioning tone, 'the assurance had long been agreed by both sides that no blade would be worn by any person at the talks, lest uncalled violence should break this chance of peace for both our people. And so it was that King Vortigern, his senior warriors, his advisors, and all of his men and women warriors… carried… no… blade. I ask you, can you imagine how it must have felt? To be walking almost naked amongst your enemy, the men and women you had so recently faced across the shield wall… with no blade in your hand? This was no ordinary courage.' There were murmurs of disbelief and fear from among the listeners, but the bard held up his hand calling for quiet.

'It was of course an uneasy meeting as the two sides first came together and approached each other cautiously like two packs of angry wolves. However, to begin with, all went well, words of greeting were spoken by both. Good words. Words of promises and regret at the blood that had been spilled, words of hope and trust and of new beginnings.'

Once again his face contorted in hatred, and he shook his fist, then looked up to the thatch, dropped to his knees and howled, 'Yet these words from Hengist… leader of the Saxons, were all just like the bleating of a sheep, for Hengist was really a wolf, and he had trapped our people; the Saxons had lied.' Cries of anger, shouts of outrage and the long drawn out wails of the old women filled the hall.

'As the warriors entered the hall they were called by the Elders of both sides to draw together, to mingle as new friends should, so they could share the great platters of prepared food and forge new bonds. Saxon sat with Trinovantes; Iceni drank ale with the same Saxon warriors who had driven him from his land and for a short time, filled with hope and promise, and the two peoples became one. Yet all this hope and trust was for nothing, for as the sun began to set over the burial mounds of the ancients, Hengist rose from his seat at the side of King Vortigern and called for his warriors to draw their
seax
, their long fighting blades that they had each hidden, strapped to the inside of their legs, and he called upon them to slaughter the men and women of the tribes who sat by their sides.'

Within the great hall, the wailing of the old women rose, and the shouting anger from everyone was getting louder and louder. The bard began to slash and stab at imagined warriors, leaping and dancing, thrusting and stabbing, and the villagers joined in, whooping and screaming their hatred, calling their oaths of revenge… until fighting for breath, with the stick thrust beneath his arm as if he had been stabbed, the bard slumped to the rushes of the floor and waited for the noise in the hall to lessen so he might continue.

'Listen to me everyone, listen while I tell you of how the blood flowed, and our people suffered. Even though the warriors of the tribes tried to defend themselves and their kin, they could do nothing… nothing, for they had honoured the treaty and carried… no… blades,' the bard was sobbing as the noise around him rose once again, he had to shout now to be heard as anger and despair matched each other in volume, 'long knives stabbed and slashed as every Saxon warrior rose to confront the man or woman who sat beside him, the person with whom he had just shared meat and ale and stabbed and cut, and the blood sprayed and flowed. The Saxon killed our people… all of them, with their long, bright knives. Many tried to escape; they ran from the hall in search of their weapons, but the Saxon fell upon them and slaughtered them all. And when it was done, almost all the four hundred and twenty-eight of our people were dead… save King Vortigern and his few closest aids, who were held back, unable to do anything to help the people as they were butchered.' The noise in the hall dulled to sobbing and wailing as quiet was called and the people hushed so the bard could go on.

'In the first light of dawn, as the crows descended to begin their feast upon the dead who had been dragged from the building and now decorated the burial mounds, the Saxons torched the feasting hall and led our King away in chains as he wept for those slaughtered and the future of his people. Spared because he had taken Hrotwyn as his wife, but also so that he could be whipped into obedience and become the Saxon's dog.' The noise in the hall was just a murmur now as the bard rose to his feet and stared solemnly around at his angry, weeping audience.

'We tell and repeat this story to remind us all, do not trust these Saxons. Do not listen to their honeyed words. We are the people of this land and them… they are the curse that we must one day turn back towards the sea and send back to the land from where they came. We must never trust them. We must always remember the lesson that our people paid for so dearly, at the Night of the Long Knives…