Uther cc-7

by Jack Whyte

  The army commanders on the beach reacted instantly. Horns and bugles began to signal the advance as the first heavy drops of rain began falling from stone-grey skies. The leading formations of the invaders struck straight into the belt of woods enclosing the beach, only to find themselves faced with an impossible and impenetrably dense forest that began no more than fifteen paces inside the leading fringe of trees. From that point on. the way was impassable, because for months hundreds of Dergyll's Griffyd warriors, working in concealment, had laboured enormously within the woods to create an appalling trap, digging large, deep, steep-sided, overlapping holes among the growing trees, leaving no level ground on which to walk, scooping the dirt out from among the exposed roots and studding the sides and bottom of each hole with long, sharp, lethal stakes.

  Initial dismay quickly gave way to mass confusion and then to panic as the realization dawned on the invaders that they were trapped and doomed, for the few ships that had escaped the rain of fire behind them had already fled, and the surface of the sea was littered with charred debris and still-blazing galleys.

  Uther watched it all unfold with grim satisfaction from a bare knoll to the northeast of the woods that hemmed in the suddenly unfriendly beach. On the landward side where the King stood, the ground rose sharply, with only the merest trace of soil covering the solid bedrock. The mass of Uther's army was drawn up on this bare ground, looking down on the woods, but they made no attempt to move, for the Pendragon bowmen who had set fire to the ships had left their high positions now and hurried down to regroup in a long, double line fronting their own army, facing the outer fringe of the woods. From there, as the first of the men who had survived the staked trap beneath the trees began to emerge, exhausted from their passage, the bowmen shot them down remorselessly, so that a ring of corpses soon marked the exit from the trees.

  When he thought sufficient damage had been done, Uther signalled his bowmen to withdraw, and they clustered around the two large wagons, laden with sheaves of fresh arrows, that sat off to his right. There they refilled their empty quivers before returning again to the high cliffs on either side of the bay on the far side of the belt of trees. From those heights, overlooking the exposed beach, they would set up a crossfire killing zone, taking advantage of the great range of their longbows and making it impossible for any of the Outlanders to return to the beach in search of safety.

  In the meantime, as more and more of the enemy emerged cautiously from the trap among the trees, stepping over the arrow- riddled corpses of their fallen fellows, they found themselves facing rank upon rank of waiting warriors, fresh and unblooded, who stood calmly looking down on them, waiting for them to approach. More than a few turned and ran back into the woods, but there was nowhere for them to go, because the woods were choked with cursing, frightened men coming their way.

  Uther found that he was clenching his jaw so hard that his muscles were beginning to ache. He sucked in a deep breath and made himself turn his head to look to his right and then his left. He knew what would happen from then on. His subordinates had been well instructed, and they would show the invading Outlanders no mercy. They had neither the time nor the facilities to accommodate prisoners. And the unforeseen destruction of the entire enemy fleet meant that there would be no salvation from the water for the Outlanders. The slaughter here today, he knew, would be appalling, but there was nothing he could do to obviate it. The Outlanders, were he to leave them alive, would show no gratitude. Indeed, they would interpret his mercy as a weakness, one in which they would never indulge. They would not then make their way humbly homeward, grateful for being spared. They would behave according to their natures and attack again, and so they must all be killed.

  Below him, the destruction continued, and most of his army had not yet made a move towards the enemy. He turned to Dergyll ap Griffyd and nodded for him to take over, then swung his horse away and angled it uphill, back towards his own camp, hoping as he went that he had situated it far enough away from the battle to be beyond the range of his hearing.

  Thanks to Uther's informants, the invasion was over almost before it had a chance to begin, providing him with a chilling lesson on the importance of secrecy, security and earning the loyalty of the people.

  Uther was back on the road to Camulod again in early May, a full month ahead of what he would have considered possible only three months earlier, and at the head of a larger army than he could have anticipated—an army, moreover, that was strong in morale and confidence, its personnel still more than slightly drunk with the swiftness and totality of the victory they had won over Lot's invaders.

  No move had yet been made against Camulod, and so Uther brought his mother, Veronica. Veronica and Luceiia would be able to look after each other, he knew, while he was gone, and he blessed the gods who had permitted everything to work out so well for him and his people, when they might easily have looked the other way. Perhaps, he dared to whisper to himself, his luck had turned at last.

  Despite his gratitude for all his good fortune, however, Uther was sombre and uncommunicative, riding alone most of the time, closely followed by Nemo, who guarded him jealously and was never without an unsheathed weapon in one hand or the other. Garreth Whistler and Huw Strongarm both watched this, saying nothing to anyone but wondering independently of each other what could be bothering the King. He ought, by rights, to have been soaring high in the aftermath of his complete victory, but it seemed to them that nothing could be farther from the truth.

  He was still in the same frame of mind when they reached Camulod, and as far as they could see, nothing had changed by the time he rode out with Titus and Flavius, Merlyn, Donuil and Lucanus to inspect the perimeter of the Colony's holdings and assess and examine the quality of the army Camulod had set aside for Uther's use.

  Uther himself felt no burden upon him, other than the familiar one of responsibility and a novel, unaccustomed need to conduct himself with great caution and much forethought in the adventure he was about to undertake, for the political situation within the troubled land of Cornwall was not one that could be lightly dismissed by an advancing army from outside. He was about to launch a hostile incursion into that territory, and while it wouldn't be his first, he had never before faced such a dangerous Cornwall, teeming as it was with unsettled native Cornish troops—factions and private armies—whose loyalties were now highly unpredictable. When Lot fell, as he undoubtedly would in the near future, the lighting among the Cornish warlords would likely escalate into full and open war, depending upon who emerged from the ruck, fighting for dominance. That struggle in itself was dangerous enough to demand a cautious approach, but the risk of catastrophe was increased indescribably by the presence of the thousands of leaderless but highly volatile mercenary Outlanders who had formed the armies of Issa and Loholt. These might swing their support at any time to back any one of the contending warlords, depending upon who was able to negotiate most tellingly with them. Or instead they might produce new leaders from among their own ranks, as Ygraine had forewarned, and join forces to overrun Cornwall on their own behalf, crushing the local Cornish opposition.

  Eclipsing even his preoccupation with the threat of war within war in Cornwall, however, Uther found himself haunted by the looming spectre of fatherhood. Ygraine would give birth to their son—it had never even occurred to him that the child might be a girl—in a matter of mere weeks, or perhaps even days, and it was not inconceivable that she might have already done so—which meant that he could already have a son and heir living in Cornwall. That, more than any other consideration, was what consistently gave him pause and had led to the unusual distance remarked on by his men.

  Uther had been raised and schooled in the formerly Roman and traditionally Camulodian discipline of responsible leadership, where no commander ever lightly risked the lives and welfare of his men. His own life, however, had always been another matter altogether, barely meriting consideration. That it was invariably placed at the disposal of, and d
edicated to the safety of, the men who relied on him for his leadership was a simple given, one of the facts of his life that was so much part of him as to be unremarkable. Now, however, for the first time in his life, Uther found himself considering his own vulnerability and mortality, visualizing himself as he truly was in battle: isolated at the head of his own formation, in front of all his men and presenting himself not only as their unmistakable leader, but also as the prime target of the enemy.

  From the moment of his discovery that Ygraine was pregnant and Lot had acknowledged her child as his own, Uther had refused even to allow himself to consider that any relationship might ever develop between the child and Gulrhys Lot. He knew that Lot would soon die at his hands, and dead. Lot could make no claim to anyone's paternity. But then, more recently, a new thought had occurred to him: what would happen, he wondered, if he himself were killed, leaving the child an orphan—what then? The child would be as helpless as any other child must be—all of the children who were not his son and heir to Pendragon—for years at the mercy of all the ills that fate could shower upon a fatherless infant until it had grown to the point at which it could begin looking after its own interests.

  He did not even attempt to delude himself that Ygraine might make do, left alone. She would be stuck in Cornwall, where being a woman meant being a slave, a chattel, with no more worth or value than her looks might earn for her on any one day. Certainly, a mother might look after a child's basic needs, but the strength and protection of a powerful and caring father was something no child should ever have to live without. It occurred to him that his own father's love for him had been uncommon, and that most of the other fathers he had known and observed had been very unlike Uric Pendragon, unwilling to show open love to their own sons or to anyone else. Be that as it may, he decided that he would be unstinting with his love to his own son. If he lived. If he stopped making a target of himself for eager enemies. If he survived to see his son grow up without the need to grow reliant upon his mother alone.

  But if that were not to be, if he were killed in the fighting that loomed ahead in Cornwall, what could he do to ensure his son's welfare then? How could he arrange to have immediate and infallible assistance sent to Ygraine and her son, his son, immediately upon his death? No one knew the child was his except Ygraine herself. Sharing that knowledge with another, any other, meant increasing the risk of the word spreading, and if it spread too far too soon, then Lot would find out, and mother and son would die, long before Uther could reach them.

  He could write a letter, a testament, and leave it in trust with his Grandmother Luceiia in Camulod when he rode off to war, with instructions that it was to be opened after his death in battle. He would acknowledge that the child born to Ygraine was his and would leave instructions for the rescue of the boy and his mother, and for their transportation to the sanctuary of Camulod, where they could both live in comfort and prosperity among family who would love them. After that, it would remain only for the rescuers to find the mother and child in the chaos of Lot's Cornwall.

  And if that proved to be impossible? How long would it take until the boy outgrew the need for his mother's protection and became strong enough and clever enough to look out for himself? That would be at least fifteen years, he thought, feeling stirrings of panic in the pit of his stomach. But then he thought, well, twelve at least . . . twelve years for a boy to grow smart enough to run and hide, to save his skin. After all, even a tiny tyke like the seven-year- old Nemo could scuttle into hiding. Nevertheless, after seven years living as an orphan in Cornwall, how would the boy ever know that he was born of Pendragon?

  Uther felt frustration and anger wash over him, and he knew that thoughts such as these could unnerve him completely. He threw himself into other activities, then, determined to lose himself in their urgencies. No matter what he did, however, the concern for his unborn son's welfare was there in the back of his mind, and the vision of Ygraine smiling at the infant on her knee was always close to the forefront.

  By the time he returned to Camulod from his inspection tour of the perimeter defences, he had arrived at a concrete decision: his main priority upon entering Cornwall would be to find Ygraine and her child, separate them from Lot and his creatures and spirit them quickly and safely back to Camulod. Once that had been achieved, and he was sure of their safety in the custody of his mother and grandmother, he could settle in to the campaign properly and give it all the attention it required and deserved. He had able and loyal deputies who could stand in for him at the start of the campaign, until his first, main task—ensuring the welfare of his heir—was taken care of. After that, he would take the reins back into his own hands and, at the head of his cavalry—his own and Camulod's—he would sweep Gulrhys Lot, his presence, his treachery and his armies not merely out of Cornwall but out of the land of Britain.

  He wrote his letter of testament slowly and with great care, reworking it several times until he was convinced that its meaning was clear and precise and that no one could possibly misconstrue what it said. Then he left it with his Grandmother Luceiia, with appropriate instructions as to how and when it was to be opened.

  Foul weather caused Uther great concern and gave him much to fret over. With his allies and supplies all in place, his army had been assembled for more than two weeks, and his carefully prepared plans all indicated that he should already have been on the road for a full week, heading southwestward along the great Roman road to the ancient town of Isca, where they would swing west into the peninsula of Cornwall. But Uther had hung back, against what his mind was whispering might have been his better judgment, stubbornly hoping for a break in the weather and refusing to give the marching order until the last possible moment. He could see little sense in leading an army off to war if its personnel were already sniffling and miserable, cold and soaking wet before they even set out. Their morale, he maintained in the face of the little opposition and disagreement he encountered, would be non-existent before they even lost sight of the battlements of Camulod if they had to slog their way through pouring rain, chill winds and ankle-deep mud. And so he waited, living in hope from day to day that the abominable weather would finally break and that he could lead his men out in sunshine, dry for at least the beginning of their campaign.

  It took eight days after their planned starting date for him to get his wish, but the break did come, and although it was not exactly a bright and clarion day of glowing sunlight, there were blue patches of sky visible between banks of clouds in the early morning, and the rain had died away during the second watch of the previous night. Encouraged by the early signs of brightening prospects, he had kept his men in readiness that morning, poised for departure while he waited until the strengthening sun could break through the cloud cover with something resembling authority. Then, when it eventually did, and as the strength of its warmth and light began to grow more and more apparent, he summoned Popilius Cirro to him, along with the senior cavalry commander from the Camulod garrison, and Garreth Whistler and Huw Strongarm from the Cambrian contingent. Telling them to mount up and ride behind him, he led them up to the reviewing stand by the edge of the great drilling ground at the bottom of Camulod's hill and sat there facing his army, waiting for his presence to bring silence.

  This was a far smaller army than he had originally intended to command—a mere two thousand strong, as opposed to the six- thousand-man host he had visualized months earlier—but he was convinced that it would be more effective and more lethal than the larger host might have been. His deliberations on the condition of Cornwall after receiving Ygraine's letter had convinced Uther that the advantages he might gain from numbers would be more than offset by the difficulties of feeding and sustaining a large army in a ruined land, and his allies had finally come to agree with him. An army must sustain itself by feeding off the land through which it travelled, but Cornwall, as they had ascertained from the reports of scouting parties sent out for that purpose, was utterly devastated and incapable o
f feeding its own after the depredations of the leaderless mercenary Outlanders and the internecine wars of the various Cornish warlords. And wherever Herliss and Lagan might be now, the massed strength they had hoped to gather against Lot had evidently failed to materialize. Uther had heard from neither man since their disappearance after the deaths of Issa and Loholt. Against his own will, he had come to realize that leading a massive army into Cornwall would be folly under such circumstances, and so he had conferred with his allies, in both Camulod and his own Cambria, in an attempt to make the best of the unpalatable situation facing them. Lot's Cornwall must be invaded they all knew that and there was no arguing against it—but the invasion Uther now proposed to lead would more resemble the thrust of a sword blade into the lines of cleavage in a lump of coal than it would the sweeping arc of a swung scythe. He would penetrate and cleave in a straight thrust, rather than surge on a broad front. And so the army waiting to depart now was composed of a mere two thousand men, half cavalry and half infantry, and included several hundred Pendragon bowmen. All of them, horse and foot, were hand picked, the best of the combined best of Camulod and Cambria, and as he waited for them to fall silent, Uther Pendragon felt proud of—and somewhat chastened by—the way they had competed among themselves to win a place in the ranks now facing him. He refused absolutely to allow himself to think he might be leading all of them to death, and he silently sucked in great, shuddering breaths to calm his voice before addressing them.