Uther cc-7

by Jack Whyte

  Here are some tidings that should be of note to you: there is a heavy concentration of Saxon forces gathered in the coastal region to the east, just beyond the borders of Cornwall. The Monster's glowering minions have deemed this to be a serious threat and he has sent an army to confront the Saxon interlopers and drive them back where they came from. Need I tell you he did not go himself? The army, ten thousand strong and under the command of a new-found mercenary champion, a sullen, dark-faced lout called Nabur, left weeks ago, just prior to your arrival. No word of how they are prospering has come back to us.

  And yet more tidings, far more doleful. You may already know that Lot has seized Tir Gwyn and declared Herliss and Lagan traitors, condemned to be killed on sight. That has been so for several months now. The latest infamy, however, is difficult to imagine, let alone to describe and set down in words. It appears that some of Lot's creatures managed to infiltrate Herliss's following and discovered where he was encamped. Lagan was away when they made their attack, but they captured Herliss, and Lagan's wife and son, Lydda and Cardoc. Herliss they killed immediately, bringing back his head to Lot in a cask of salt water, but they brought the woman and her son alive, in chains, to face Lot's mercy.

  By our dear Christus, I can barely speak of this, but if ever proof were needed that my benighted spouse is insane and needs to be killed, it is contained in what I must describe next. Lot gave the woman Lydda over to his soldiers for their pleasure, and they used her until they eventually killed her. I know that in itself, although monstrous, is not unheard of, but what followed is. He made the boy, who was eleven years old, watch the atrocities that were being heaped upon his mother, telling him constantly as he watched that his father, Lagan, was to blame for what was happening. The poor boy was beside himself until his reason left him and he apparently fell silent, never to speak again. Then, when Lydda was dead, Lot had her feet cut off and sent them back, along with the child's hands, severed from his body after his murder, to where Herliss and his people had been camping when they were captured. This was a reminder, he sent word to Lagan, of the penalties for disloyalty to a friend.

  I have no knowledge of Lagan's reaction, and I have no wish to think about it, but the man must he demented with grief.

  And finally: at this time, Lot is hiding in the north, in his northernmost stronghold, which is an ancient place with no name other than "the Shelter." It is on the coast, some twelve leagues north of the island fortress at Rosnant, where there they are adding to the fortifications and building barracks, although there is not yet sufficient comfort in the place for Lot's taste. He will stay in the Shelter, it seems, until word reaches him of success in the southeast against the Saxons. I have also heard a rumour, but not a solid one, that he has gone there to await the arrival of a new fleet of Erse galleys, nothing to do with me or mine. If that rumour is true, then he might well be waiting for a fleet of galleys belonging to our ancient enemies who call themselves the Sons of Condran. If he is as terrified of my brother Connor as I think he is, it would make a kind of twisted sense for him to seek alliance with the Sons of Condran, and they would be perfect for each other.

  I think you may have a chance to deal with Lot once and for all if you can take him while he is walled up in the Shelter. They think of it as a coastal fort, but it is not quite on the seacoast. My understanding is that it stands on a headland overlooking the sea, but the cliffs are of soft stone and subject to crumbling and collapse, and so the walls of the fort itself are set back some distance from the lip of the cliffs. I have been told, however, that you might be able to surround it completely and take it. You yourself will be the best judge of that when you see the place.

  Those are all my tidings and my inky-fingered scribe has shown great patience with my stumbling and my changes. He assures me, however, that by the time he has recopied my words, you will see no sign of where the changes have occurred.

  I have but one thing more to say to you, and it is this. We have never spoken of love, we two, and if truth be known, I have never really known what love is. Now, however, looking at our son, I know the feeling that threatens to consume me is love, and it is strangely like the feelings that have boiled here in my breast since last I saw your face. I know that when I gaze into your eyes again and see you hold our son in your strong arms, I will know love at last and forever. Farewell, and come to me safely. We will be moving soon to another of Lot's strongholds, since we have already been here for too long, and I will find a way of sending word to you when that occurs, so that you will be able to come and find us.

  Farewell, and think of me sometimes.

  Think of me sometimes. Uther smiled briefly upon reading that the first time. But then, slightly overwhelmed by the profusion of information in the letter, he left his quarters, saddled his horse and rode away to where he could be alone and free of interruptions. And there, on the bank of a fast-flowing stream, he sat down on a moss- covered tree stump and read Ygraine's words again several times aloud, allowing himself to be buffeted by the conflicting emotions they stirred up in him.

  Among the first of these were pride and a sense of incredulous wonder. He had a son. That single piece of knowledge affected him more deeply than anything else he could remember. A son, Arthur Pendragon. He liked the name, sufficiently akin to his own to ring well in his ears when he spoke it aloud, as he did repeatedly. Arthur Pendragon. Uther Pendragon; Arthur Pendragon. And not merely a son, but an extraordinary one, beautiful and the image of his father, but with shining golden eyes the like of which his mother had never seen. He had heard of such eyes, however, among his own ancestry. Caius Britannicus, brother to his Grandmother Luceiia, had had such eyes—eagle's eyes, his grandmother had called them. And now they had resurfaced in his own son, the eyes of a golden eagle.

  He sat silent for a long time after that, the letter loosely gripped in the hand that hung by his side as he sat gazing into nothingness, trying to imagine the boy and how he would grow up. But then other thoughts intruded and stole the warm glow from his eyes. Lagan Longhead had had a son, too, and had doted upon the boy. And now the lad was dead, his severed hands sent to Lagan, along with his mother's feet, in token of Lot's displeasure. Displeasure! Uther's stomach soured at the thought of what his friend must have endured on seeing those remains, and he had little difficulty in agreeing with Ygraine that Lagan must be well-nigh demented with grief and rage. But then the significance of Ygraine's news of Lot's present whereabouts came to him, and he sprang to his feet, determination swelling in his chest like a hard knot. He would find this Shelter and burn it about Lot's ears, and then he would send the whoreson's singed head to Lagan.

  His mind resolved, and feeling more positive than at any time since entering Cornwall weeks earlier, he turned his attention to a new strategy, and as soon as he had regained his camp, Uther summoned his field commanders to discuss their imminent foray into the north to contain Lot in the bolt-hole called the Shelter.

  Despite his wish to avoid prolonged sieges, Uther had nonetheless discussed the possibility of mounting a direct strike against a fortified position with his field commanders several times in the recent past, on the clearly defined understanding that they might be fortunate enough to gain absolute knowledge of Lot's whereabouts and be able to pin him in one place, unable to flee. That last point was arguable in this instance for a number of reasons, including their utter lack of knowledge about the place called the Shelter, and Uther's senior commanders did not hesitate to raise their objections. The report on which Uther was basing his proposed plan to march northward against Lot was no more trustworthy, they suggested, than an earlier report that had come to them about an army of Erse warriors called Galloglas that was supposed to land on the northwestern coast of Cornwall some time within the following few days. If that report was in any way true, they pointed out, then Uther might well be leading his army into needless danger, and a costly battle against a nameless enemy would do them little good when their true quarry was Gulrhys Lot
himself.

  Uther did not accept that. The enemy army described as Galloglas in that report, which had come from a nameless sympathizer, must, he believed, be the same Erse fleet mentioned in his report —- the fleet that Lot had marched north to await. Based on that belief, he argued that the newcomers would sail directly to where Lot awaited them in the fort known as the Shelter.

  Some of his most senior commanders, including Mucins Quinto, the military surgeon attached to the contingent from Camulod, remained unconvinced that Uther's information was incontrovertibly valid, despite Uther's fiery convictions, and their skepticism was aggravated by his stubborn refusal to identify his informant, aware as always of the need to protect Ygraine. Quinto's objections were based upon the risk of useless slaughter. Slaughter was part and parcel of warfare, Quinto knew, but needless slaughter was anathema to him. The march Uther was proposing to undertake was foolhardy under the circumstances, an unacceptable risk under any conditions and one that directly flouted Uther's own rules governing the selection of military objectives and the responsible disposition of troops.

  Agreeing with Quinto, Popilius Cirro went so far as to call Uther's suggestion outrageously impulsive; it had to be considered unjustifiable, until and unless they could obtain more concrete information from at least one additional source about the supposed threat posed by the Saxon army reported to be massed on Lot's eastern borders. They had no proof that army was even there, Popilius maintained, and even less proof that Lot's main army had been dispatched to deal with them. That lack of certainty, entailing the very real possibility of a threat from their rear on a northward march, allied with this other unconfirmed report of an advancing army of Ersemen from the north, cried out to be resolved and settled before any major decisions could be made concerning troop movements and objectives.

  Uther listened to all of them and then vetoed their disapproval, claiming that the existence of the written report he had received was proof enough. He even read the pertinent section of his letter aloud in an attempt to demonstrate his good faith, but his continuing refusal to put a name to his informant worked against the credibility of his information.

  In the end, of course, Uther's will as King prevailed, but a degree of uncertainty over the outcome of his projected thrust remained, because none of his people had ever seen the fort Ygraine had described, and so they could not know how accessible the seacoast was from the fort's walls, or how wide the outer space around the fort, between the walls and the clifftop, might be. That information was vital, and Uther himself swore he wanted no part of attacking the position if Lot could simply escape by sea, leaving his mercenaries to defend his back. There was nothing they could really do to resolve that impasse, however, since they would not be able to answer the questions until they approached the place and saw it for themselves.

  Once the decision to go there was made, however, Popilius and the rest of his commanders accepted his wishes, and the remainder of their planning fell quickly into place, although he reminded all of them, as always, about the standard observation and proviso governing all such planning. Uther had been taught by all his mentors and instructors that no battle plan, irrespective of how well or how painstakingly it might have been prepared, had ever been known to survive intact after the first real clash with the enemy. That was an accepted axiom of all warfare: to be effective and successful, a battle plan—and a commander's mind—must allow for an enormous amount of flexibility.

  Uther and his commanders spent three days working on their strategy, and on the fourth day they set out for the northwest coast. They encountered no more opposition than they had in the previous month, so they made excellent time, and the miles fell away at their backs. Late in the afternoon of their fourth day's march, their forward scouts sent back word that they had reached the coast and were now within sight of the Shelter.

  Uther called a halt and established camp immediately. Many of his troops, he knew, would spend a sleepless night, as he would, anticipating the next day's battle, and all of them would be up and ready to advance before dawn's hues first began to tinge the night sky.

  All the sleepless nights, however, were wasted. As soon as Uther came within sight of the stronghold called the Shelter and stopped to take a long, evaluating look at it, he knew that their journey had been but one more frustrating element in a campaign already filled to overflowing with disappointment and inaction. The thought had barely had the time to form in his mind, however, before Garreth Whistler and Huw Strongarm rode up to put the lie to it. They, too, had seen the hopelessness of the situation, but they had seen beyond it, too, and sensed an advantage to be gained while they were there in force.

  The fort, a typical concentric ditch-and-dyke construction, had been built on a headland, as his information had indicated, and its walls were safely withdrawn from the edges of the cliffs of crumbling, friable rock, leaving a clear area surrounding the perimeter that could conceivably accommodate an encircling force. Only an idiot would have tried to put such a force there, however, for what Uther's information had lacked was detail: the headland itself rose steeply towards the sea, then ended in an abrupt, unscalable cliff, and the fortification that had been established there over hundreds of years had been adapted admirably by its builders to the steeply sloping terrain. Many of the surfaces within the ramparts had been raked so they were level, and the walls at the front of the fort, facing the mainland, were more than twice as high as those at the rear. Those walls showed Uther immediately that the place would not be taken by direct assault; no besieging force could scale those enormous front slopes. Nor could any sustained attack be mounted against the lesser walls at the back, for in order to reach the rear of the fortification, any attacker would first have to circle the walls, using the narrow strip of land between walls and clifftop as their only pathway. There was not a patch of cover anywhere. While the attackers would have to fight every pace of the way against the steep slope, the defenders on the ramparts high above them would be standing on artificially levelled ground. The entire area around the walls was a killing ground.

  "Not what we thought, eh?" This was Huw Strongarm. Garreth Whistler said nothing at all, merely watching Uther with tightly pursed lips. "Still, it could be worse, from our point of view."

  "Could it?" Uther asked. "How?"

  Huw allowed his surprise to show fleetingly and then ploughed onward. "Well, Lot's in there, and he's stuck there as long as we stay."

  "We have no way of knowing he's in there, Huw."

  "Yes we have. He's there, I've just been told."

  "By whom, and why have I not been told?"

  Huw shrugged and dipped his head. "Because the word came to me through one of my own men no more than moments ago, and I'm telling you now. One of our scout patrols picked up two local farmers early this morning. They are no supporters of their King, and they didn't need much persuasion to tell everything they know about this place. They saw Lot's arrival here eight days ago, and he hasn't been seen since. So we have him, safely cooped up in there. There's no way out that I can see."

  "You can't see the back view of the cliff, Huw. They could have flights of stairs leading all the way down to the beach there, for all we know. Lot could have left by sea days ago."

  "Aye, he could have. It's possible, I'll grant you that. But I'll wager he didn't, and if he stayed, then he'll stay there now until we say he can leave. There was a way out at the back, for some of my fellows have been there, seen it and closed it off. You set me in charge of all the scouts, remember, and that means that all our scouts are now Pendragon. First thing I set them to do once they got here was to explore the seaward side of things. There's a way down to the sea from the back, certainly, but it's not man-made. There's a few flights of steps, but they're primitive, and the rest is as nature made it—steep and narrow and dangerous. About two-thirds of the way down from the top there's a chasm, as though the entire cliff fell sideways at some time. My fellows couldn't see the bottom of it, said it's just li
ke a hole clear down through the earth. Anyway, the gap's about ten paces wide at its narrowest point, and crossed by a bridge. Or it was. My fellows chopped the bridge down."

  "They chopped it down . . . Are you telling me it was unguarded?"

  Huw grinned and shot a glance at Garreth Whistler. "Oh no, it was guarded. There's a guard tower above it and another below it, but they were built to guard against an attack coming up the path from the sea, and the people in them were not expecting Pendragon bowmen. No one was expecting our scouts and no one saw them arrive. They crept around the base of the cliffs under cover of night and then scaled them on either side of the path just after dawn. Then they flanked the guard towers and picked off all ten of the guards before the fools even knew they were under attack. After that, they chopped down the bridge. So no one will be leaving by that back route unless they sprout wings and fly across the chasm. And there will be no re-supply from the sea using that route, either."

  By the time Huw had finished, Uther was shaking his head in admiration. But then Garreth Whistler spoke up. "Huw's people could be very important to us were we to leave them on the cliffs, Uther."