by Jack Whyte
"The women's presence is the only reason you remain alive. Our lord does not make war on women. Throw down your weapons, and you'll live. Otherwise die here, and die quickly."
Herliss rallied himself quickly, finding his voice again and filling it with truculence. "Your lord? These are King Lot's lands. Who is this lord of yours?"
"One far more powerful than yours." The black-haired spokesman's voice betrayed no hint of anything other than arrogant surety. "You have two hundred men trapped here, ten women and a score of puny little bows. We have four hundred longbows pointing down at you. Therefore our lord has more power than yours. Throw down or die. My patience is not endless."
Ygraine felt fingers clutch at her elbow from behind and knew it was her cousin Alasdair Mac Iain, the captain of her bodyguard, but she had eyes only for Herliss now, and she shrugged the fingers away, only to feel them grasp again at her sleeve immediately.
"Herliss, hear me in this," she called, pitching her voice to keep her words from the men above. "You will be of no use to me or to anyone else if you are dead. Do what he says, and what I command. Tell your men to lay down their arms." She watched Herliss debate with himself for long moments, then saw his shoulders slump and knew she had won, but she waited until she saw him pass the order to surrender before she swung back to face her own captain.
"Lady Ygraine—" he began, but she cut him short, hissing with urgency before he could begin his protest.
"Alasdair, be quiet. I know what you will say and I refuse to listen. My father charged you with my life. He will not thank you if you endanger it in this." She forestalled his anguished reaction, silencing him with a stabbing jab of her flattened hand. "They have us, man! What would you do? Fight to protect me and be killed, leaving me prisoner?"
"But we must fight, Ygraine, we have no option! We—"
"You have two options!" Ygraine spat the words at him, trampling his protest underfoot with her own imperatives. "Fight and die, or yield and live. No more! Think what you're saying, man! If we conduct ourselves correctly, we may yet win something here."
The captain gaped at her, his lack of understanding written plain upon his face, so that she made herself speak more slowly, softening her voice against her will but articulating each word precisely. "You heard what that man said, Alasdair. His lord, whoever he may be, does not make war on women. Have you ever heard the like? Perhaps he has a weakness for women's beauty, like my own lord. If he does, we'll use it, and we'll win free of him alive, all of us. These men are disciplined. Ours are warriors, not soldiers. So please, I want you to avoid confrontations with me or with them. Trust me in this. We will not be harmed."
Alasdair Mac lain sucked in a mighty breath and held it as he glared eye to eye with his headstrong cousin. Then he capitulated and swung away towards his men, sheathing his sword and nodding at them to sheathe theirs and lower their shields. They did so with obvious reluctance, glaring defiantly al the enemy who surrounded them on the hillsides.
"Stand down," their captain warned them. "But show these animals no fear. We'll light another day. For the time being, heed the words of the Lady Ygraine, but hold your positions and be prepared to die defending Athol's honour should these heathens prove false."
As her bodyguard obeyed Mac Iain's orders, Ygraine turned to the woman closest to her, a beautiful, tall woman in her mid-twenties, with long, blond tresses spilling from a silken cowl.
"Morgas, call out to Herliss, but quietly. Tell him to dismount and come here, but not to come to me. Call him to you. Then tell that fellow up there on the hill that it is over, though I can see he knows that. Do it now."
The woman called Morgas did not obey immediately. She levelled her lovely blue eyes at the Queen. "Why me, Ygraine?"
Ygraine smiled. "Because, my dear, you are the fairest of my flock, and you shall be the Queen for now, until I have had the opportunity to weigh and judge what has happened here. This lord of theirs might have a sweet tooth for women, who knows? And if he has, he might be malleable thereby. If so, he will delight in you, and should he be the half part noble, so might you in him. Why are you frowning? Do as I say."
"But. . . they already know you are the Queen. They heard you order Herliss not to fight."
The Queen's faced hardened. "No, they heard a woman's voice begging for life. Most of them would have no idea which woman. The shield wall stands between us and Herliss, and he and his group between the wall and the enemy, whose eyes were on the shield wall and the men forming it. If they have looked at us at all since then, they have seen but female shapes, and the promise of lechery to come. We are not yet people to them. Now do my bidding."
Morgas inclined her head, her eyes veiled, and turned to obey.
Ygraine stayed among her women to watch, and as soon as Morgas had carried out her wishes, she saw the black-bearded man raise a horn from his waist and blow two distinct signals at no great volume. In response, his men began to move, half of them slinging their bows across their backs and moving down towards the road, the other half spreading themselves about to cover any eventuality, their vigilance, if anything, increased. Herliss had bidden his own men yield, and now, having thrown down their weapons, they moved together sullenly, forming separate groups, their hands free of weapons, their eyes shifting fearfully as they watched the enemy descending towards them.
The black-bearded giant moved down directly to the Queen and her ladies, passing between two of the warriors of her bodyguard who now stood weaponless. As he approached, Ygraine saw that he was even more impressive than from afar, towering over Alasdair, the tallest of her bodyguard. Herliss had already arrived and been informed of Ygraine's wishes, and now he stood sullenly to Morgas's right, glaring at his conqueror. Watching the big stranger approach, Ygraine was impressed by his comeliness, obscured even as it was by the black beard and by his surprising youth. She estimated his age to be no more than twenty-one or twenty-two; younger than herself or any of her women.
"Which of you is the Queen?" The voice was a deep but strangely gentle growl, the words uttered in a Celtic language strange to Ygraine's Erse ear, but understandable. He ignored the men completely, his eyes moving from face to face among the women. When his gaze met hers, quickening with evident intent to speak to her, she lowered her eyes demurely and turned away, hoping to disarm him. She was surprised at herself: at the strange sensations that were coursing through her; at the heat she could feel rising in her cheeks; and at the compulsion she felt to look back frankly into his blue eyes and speak to him, an unknown stranger and a proven enemy, a brigand and a thief. She closed her eyes, gripping her elbows in her hands, steeling herself, and then, aware somehow that he was no longer looking at her, she opened them again and glanced towards him, noting that every woman in her group was watching him watching Morgas. Ygraine breathed again, feeling relief sweep over her. It was no surprise that he had fastened upon Morgas, but it was gratifying to know that her judgment had been sound. He had dismissed Ygraine, drawn to the brighter blossom.
As he moved towards them, approaching very close to where they stood, Ygraine moved closer to Morgas, almost interposing herself between the two, inclining her head slightly, with an air of submission towards the blond woman. The man loomed over her.
"Lady," he growled, "are you the Queen among these people?"
"I am." Morgas's voice was cold, with no hint of graciousness.
The big man bowed to her, almost brushing Ygraine's breast with his shoulder. Her nostrils flared in anticipation of the smell of him, but instead of the rank odour she had expected, she caught nothing but the mild hint of warm, clean sweat.
"Lady—" He broke off, straightening himself up. "Your pardon. What should I call you?"
"That will suffice." The voice dripped icy disdain.
He nodded. "I am Huw, called Huw Strongarm, captain to Uther, King of Pendragon."
Ygraine felt her spirits falter. Uther Pendragon, the Cambrian King himself, already here in Cornwall and the
snow not a week gone! Her people's hopes had all been pinned upon his late arrival after a long, hard winter, but he was here already. Then she frowned, looking anew at the young giant who called himself Huw. He seemed like an unlikely captain for the fabled Pendragon hordes. She had heard many stories, they all had, of the savagery of the Pendragon warriors, and many more of Uther, the chimera they called their King, with his lusts for rapine and slaughter and the torture of innocents. It was common knowledge that the friends he owned equalled the number of the enemies he had met: none lived in either case. His name was anathema to all decent folk, and he and her husband had been fell enemies since boyhood. Gulrhys, she knew, detested him to the bottom of his soul.
Faced with a stony silence, and clearly at a loss because of it, the big man cleared his throat. "My lord has been delayed. He should have come this morning, since he knew that you would pass this way today—"
"How could he know that?" The question, uttered in clipped, sterile tones, came from Morgas.
Huw looked at her and almost, Ygraine thought, began to smile. Instead he frowned and shrugged. "He knew. But we must wait close by here, up in the hills, until he comes. In the meantime there is work to do. We must unload these wagons and distribute their contents among our men."
"God save your sorry wit! You would carry their cargo? On your backs? That bespeaks little brain inside your brawn."
Huw gazed at Morgas for the space of three heartbeats, then raised one eyebrow. "We used our brawn to dig these pits on either side . . . but it was our brains that told us we might do it. Wagons leave broad tracks, lady. Footprints are less obvious and more difficult to follow."
He glanced away from Morgas, looking directly into Ygraine's eyes for a moment, and she lowered her eyes immediately, but not before noticing that again he almost smiled before returning his attention to Morgas. "We built the trap, milady. You entered it."
Morgas bit her lip, bereft of a suitable response.
"Which wagon holds your tents? I'll have my men unload them and your people may bring them separately, so that you will have comforts while you await the King."
"Uther Pendragon is no King, not here in Cornwall! Here, Gulrhys Lot is lord." Morgas was Hushed, with a hectic colour in her cheeks, and her eyes were glittering. She held her head high, attempting to wither this man with her scorn. Ygraine saw her glance briefly in her direction before returning her attention to the big man who stood so close to her. Then Morgas raised her voice, its tone still tight with a tension masked as anger. "Derwyn!"
The man called Derwyn turned to her immediately, and Morgas pointed to him, speaking icily to Huw.
"Derwyn is our steward. He knows where everything is and his people will unload our wagons. He will not require your assistance."
Huw nodded. "No, milady. But I will require my men to assist him, despite that, to watch your people." He looked to Derwyn. "Come."
When the two men were out of hearing and she had looked about to see that they were free from the attention of other strangers, Ygraine addressed those who remained about her.
"Good. That went well. Now, move about and find something to do. The gods know there's enough to be done. But remember, all of you, Morgas is Queen until I say otherwise, so bring her my chair and bring her chair for me." She turned to Morgas. "Walk with me Morgas, but ahead of me, and mind you keep us clear of these people. I have no wish to be overheard. Dillys, walk beside me, behind Morgas."
No one seemed to pay any attention to them as they began to walk, although it was mere moments before Ygraine became aware that their movements were being mirrored by a trio of men on the hillside above, each of whom carried a casually slung bow. These men's eyes remained fixed on the three women, and their duty was obviously to watch and to guard against any attempt at flight. Ygraine ignored them and looked around her to where her own men were being herded into groups and guarded by squads of dour-faced bowmen who stood above them on the flanks of the hill, each squad focused upon one group of disarmed Cornishmen. Her own bodyguard stood closest to where they walked, huddled dejectedly and yet somehow defiantly in a single group, stripped of all weaponry. Ygraine nodded silently to Alasdair as she passed them, and then she waited until she and Morgas had gained an open stretch of road before speaking.
"You find that Huw attractive. Keep your wits about you. You're my bait, but for the monster Uther, not his lackey."
Morgas swung to look at her, wide-eyed. "What are you talking about? The man's a pig."
Ygraine jerked up one hand to forestall her companion's response. "Please, Morgas! The man's attractive—no denying that—but he is unimportant. Just remember who you are supposed to be, for now at least, and why. We have a bigger prize than Huw Strongarm.
"At best we might be held for ransom. Only our presence, if we can believe what we are told, has saved our men from being slaughtered as quickly as were Gylmer and his group. Their lord does not make war on women. Faugh! Uther Pendragon, the man whose name is used to frighten children? Better to be tortured by the alien Saxons than well treated by such as these, Morgas. These are our deadly enemies. They come to kill us all! They come in war, to rape and steal and kill and burn and devastate our homes, to hang and mutilate our children!"
Morgas, however, was no longer listening. Her eyes, which had been fixed on Ygraine's lips when she began to speak, had filled with anger and then swung away, across the Queen's shoulder. But there they had focused and grown keen. Ygraine frowned, and then turned to see what had distracted her.
A party of nine men had ridden into view over the brow of the hill above and were now descending towards the activity in the valley below. All were mounted on huge horses, but four of these men looked enormous, almost godlike, their apparent height increased by the great, crested helmets that they wore. The remaining five were less impressive, bare-headed and wearing no armour, but nonetheless richly dressed in heavy, beautifully coloured clothing that proclaimed wealth and privilege. Their route took them diagonally across the view of the three women, oblivious to their presence, and the women watched them ride by, noting the heavy armour that the warriors wore and the metal greaves that clad their legs above their booted feet, thrust into long stirrups, which the women had never seen or heard of before.
Morgas was round-eyed. "Romans," she whispered, gazing at their backs.
"No, I think not, not Romans." The Queen's voice was filled with scorn, but her companion did not notice.
"Aren't they huge! I thought the other one, Huw, was big, but these are giants."
"No, they're big, but their armour makes them seem bigger."
"Not the leader. He's bigger than all of them." Morgas turned to look at Ygraine, belatedly aware of the Queen's strange tone. "What are they, then, if they're not Romans? Those are Roman helmets."
"Aye, but those swine are Celts, like us. There have been no Romans in Britain since before we were born. Those are Pendragon, Morgas, and the leader, the one in the red cloak with the golden dragon and the gilded armour, is Uther, their King, or I miss my guess." Ygraine turned to look at Morgas, straight-faced. "Our captor. Your new lover . . . if he's human, which I doubt. Come, we had best be getting back."
Chapter TWENTY-FOUR
Huw Strongarm heard the silence that fell as Uther Pendragon came into view over the crest of the hill. Huw had been talking to two of his senior captains, instructing them on their duties as guardians and captors of the Queen and her train of women, and as soon as the noise above him on the hillside diminished suddenly, then began to die away completely, he knew the cause and dismissed his officers with an abrupt nod. Watching them walk away then and seeing how they glanced up over their shoulders to where Uther would be approaching, Huw allowed himself a smile, finding himself moved yet again to wonder at the respectful awe Uther Pendragon unfailingly inspired in his fierce followers.
Huw had once thought, briefly, that this widespread fascination, close to reverence, was based upon fear, but for years now he had
known better. The plain truth was that Uther Pendragon was heroic, a larger-than-life figure of epic energies, courage and enthusiasm, and his warriors revered him as something they themselves could never be. Exactly what that something was, however, Huw had found more than difficult to define. He had tried to identify it many times, only to give up at last and simply accept it as part of the enigma that was Uther, his friend and commander, Chief and King.
Huw continued to stand with his back to the newcomers, determined not to turn around while knowing that he might well be the only person there who did not. He allowed himself one last look around the scene of his recent success. Two enormous piles of weapons lay to his right, where they had been discarded by the men disarming the captured Cornish warriors. They had been thrown haphazardly, tossed aside disdainfully by the men who stripped them from their former owners before herding those owners away like cattle to be held under close guard. Now, each pile of weapons was being sorted by a detachment of Huw's Cambrians. The best of the pickings would be kept as spoils of war, the remainder taken away, buried and left to rust.
Even the men who had been sorting through the weapons now stood motionless, watching their leader approach from above, and Huw's eyes moved beyond them to where a smaller group of prisoners also stood staring up the hill: the Cornish leader, Herliss, and his twelve senior officers, with Herliss himself standing as far apart from the others as his guards would allow. Huw smiled again as he realized how far removed these men were from anything that Uther's Camulod-trained Cambrians would recognize as an officer. He looked then towards the women of the Queen's party, noting that the Queen herself and the two companions with whom she had walked apart were now returning to join the others. A glance up the hill in front of him revealed that Owain of the Caves had been keeping pace with the Queen, as Huw's instructions had specified.