The Dragon's Banner

by Jay Allan

  Uther washed down the slice of pork with a hearty gulp of wine. "You have my thanks, Urien, for our march was hard indeed, and the losses we bore today were bitter. Other tidings I bear, and these also are dark, for my brothers are all slain, and my father lies in Caer Guricon, close to death."

  Urien looked up from his plate with a start. "All of your brothers dead? And old Constantine dying? How did things come to such a pass?"

  "My brothers were all killed in the field. Indeed, Constans fell leading a relief force north to aid you last summer. I fear there were spies in his host, for they were ambushed on the march and my brother slain. I would have you know that my father did not ignore your need, and that he did try to send forces to your aid."

  "Never did I doubt your father, yet I could not divine why no help had come. For almost a year I looked to the south each dawn and dusk, waiting, praying to see the relieving army marching to our aid. When I saw the torches of your forces charging down the hillside it was as if the fires of hell had come forth to swallow the enemy."

  Urien looked down at the table silently for a moment. "Sorry I am about your father, yet not surprised. For at the council I thought he was troubled by some ill, though he fought mightily to hide it. But your brothers…all three of them. These are evil tidings. Such loss you have suffered. I would offer my condolences and my respect to the fallen."

  "I thank you for your kind words. Yet we must purpose ourselves to the task that lies ahead, for many battles remain before us, I fear. Time enough to mourn the dead when the fight is won."

  "You shall be king of Powys. All my life I have been destined for the throne. Since boyhood I have been trained to be king, and every waking moment was tasked to that purpose until the thought of wearing the crown was hateful. Yet such was the calling of my birth. But you, my friend, find the kingship falling to you unexpected. Many burdens does the crown carry, as you will no doubt come to see. As you have indeed already come to know."

  "Fate does not ask our council.” Uther’s tone was matter-of-fact. "King I shall be, whether I will it or no. But if I am to be king, then I shall be also high king, for such was my father's right, and by succession, mine. This land must be united. No more can we waste our strength fighting among ourselves while invaders and usurpers gain power."

  "I was prepared to accept your father as high king.” Urien’s eyes bored into Uther’s as he spoke. "In you I perceive a strength such as I have never seen in another. I, Urien, King of Rheged, will be the first to accept you as High King of Britannia. And at your side I shall fight this war - north, south, east, west, wherever the enemy may be. Wherever you command me to go, I shall go. Let it be victory or death."

  "Honored I am to accept your fealty and your friendship. I shall have great need of warriors and honorable friends such as you."

  When they had supped, Urien sent for his sister, Andra, and bade her stitch up Uther's wound. Andra came into the hall, clad in a simple yellow dress. She was beautiful, with long dark hair and shimmering blue eyes, and she bowed before Uther, smiling sweetly as she sat beside him and slowly unwound the blood-crusted bandage from his arm. Uther winced slightly as Andra pulled the wound together and began stitching. Urien was thinking also of matches, for his sister would make an ideal wife for Uther. But no thought did Uther give to a wife, or indeed to any woman save one, and she was far away and not his.

  Uther remained at Carlisle for a month after the battle, for his men had suffered greatly and needed rest. Many days the heralds had spent tallying the fallen, and no record has survived with reliable numbers of those slain at the battle, now called Gwen Ystrad. Yet it is said that a generation of Picts fell, and fewer than one in five ever returned to their lands in the north. Those few that did brought with them tales of the terrible warrior king, Uther Pendragon. For days the fires smoldered as the victors burned the bodies of the dead invaders. It was a decade or more before the northerners again troubled the Britons living to the south, and never again did they do so in the same numbers.

  Uther had lost a third of his men, though of these, many were wounded and would heal to fight again. Urien's forces suffered greater losses, for they had endured nearly a year of siege, and many had succumbed to pestilence and disease or died defending the walls. Barely 600 men remained under arms in Carlisle, and in Uxelodunum, only seventy of the original five hundred defenders marched out of the relieved fortress.

  In the weeks following the battle, Urien was strengthened by the arrival of the contingents of those lords who had been unable to reach Carlisle before it was cut off and besieged. Predominantly from the remote western regions of the kingdom, together they fielded over 700 men, mostly mounted men at arms.

  One evening, about a month after the battle, Uther came to Urien, for they had much to discuss. His wound was nearly healed, for Andra had been very attentive. Uther became fond of the girl, but his heart belonged to his lost love, then and always, and he made certain not to give Urien's sister hope of more than his gratitude and friendship.

  "Urien, my friend.” Uther spoke as he walked into the throne room. "I would speak with you if I may."

  "Indeed, you may speak with me anytime, for already do I regard you as my high king, and the war leader of the alliance. What may I do for you?"

  "I would charge you with a dangerous task, for I must soon return to Powys. If we have not yet been attacked there, we soon shall be, and I can waste no more time now. Yet still must I find out what has happened to King Lot, for there has been no word from Luthien in many months.

  "I will leave you a thousand of my men to augment your forces. Carlisle will be safe from attack for the near future, and I believe you can leave it lightly held. I would bid you take an army north and east and find out what has happened in Luthien. I know that Rheged and Luthien have ever had disputes, but now we are all allied, and it stains the honor of all if any of us is left to face the enemy alone."

  "Such feuds of old shall not trouble us.” Urien spoke with obvious sincereity. “I am committed to help you unite Britannia under your high kingship. I shall do as you bid, now and always. Five hundred men shall garrison Carlisle along with what remains of the town watch, and the rest shall march to Luthien."

  "I am grateful for your loyalty. If I have allies such as you then I do not doubt for our victory."

  The two of them sat, discussing strategy for Urien's march to Luthien when a servant entered the room and bowed to them both. "King Urien, a messenger has arrived from Caer Guricon and craves admittance to see Lord Uther. He says his business is urgent."

  Urien glanced at Uther, then back to the servant. "Send him in immediately, Emlyn."

  The servant bowed again and hurried out into the corridor, returning a moment later with a tall warrior clad in armor and the blue and silver livery of Caer Guricon's house guard. The visitor bowed to Urien and then knelt before Uther, awaiting permission to speak.

  Uther knew the visitor, for he was one of the captains of Caer Guricon. "Speak, Grigor, for you have traveled long to see me. Who dispatched you?"

  "Merlin bade me come to you, sire, for he sends me with grave tidings. You father, God bless his soul, is dead."

  Urien's face showed his grief, but Uther sat impassively, and he replied without emotion. "Thank you, Grigor, for bringing me this news. Have you other messages from Merlin?"

  "Yes, my king," replied the still-kneeling warrior. He handed Uther a worn leather pouch full of parchments.

  Uther reached out and took the satchel, and noticing that the messenger was still kneeling he motioned for him to stand. "Rise, Grigor, for you and I have bled together in battle. I would not have you wear holes in the knees of your pants."

  Grigor rose and, reaching into a sack he had slung over his shoulder he pulled a small package, wrapped carefully in silken cloth. He handed it reverently to Uther. "He sent this as well, sire."

  Uther took the bundle, and removed the silk coverings. In his hands he held the crown of Powys, solid
gold, with five silver dragons perched along the top. The dragon's eyes were sparkling red gems, and along the bottom there was detailed scrollwork, listing the names of the kings of Powys. At the end of the list, freshly engraved, was written, Uther I. Uther found himself amused that his name was already on the crown. He thought to himself, you waste no time, do you Merlin? Indeed, he thought, Merlin is wise as always, for we have no time to waste.

  "I thank you again, Grigor. You shall join our forces here, for I have need of loyal and true captains. Soon we will march back to Caer Guricon, for though we have won a victory here, it is but a brief respite, and the forces moving against us are still stronger then we."

  "We shall march into hell itself, sire, if you lead us there.” Grigor looked at Uther with great reverence. No enemy shall stand in our wake."

  Uther's granite expression yielded to a tiny smile. "Your loyalty is greatly valued, Grigor. But now I command you to rest, for your journey was long, and I suspect you slept little on your way. Go now, and eat and sleep, and we shall speak again later.

  Urien commanded his servant to make quarters ready for Grigor and to have the kitchens prepare a supper for the new arrival. Bowing again, the servant bade Grigor to follow, and the two of them walked out into the corridor, leaving Urien and Uther alone to speak long into the night.

  Uther stood before the assembled army, for he had ordered all his captains to form their men in the plain north of Carlisle. On his head was the crown of Powys, and though it perched well upon him, he found it carried a weight far greater than that of just the gold and silver from which it was forged. For though he had already acted as king for many months, the priceless treasure he wore was a constant reminder of the burdens that were now his, and would always be until he closed his eyes for the final time.

  As he stepped out onto the battlement over the main gate and looked down on the warriors assembled below, some in the front saw the crown on his head. Understanding the significance, they began to shout, "Hail Uther, king!" It began among a small group of the men from Powys, but soon the entire army chanted his name, and men from Rheged and Cornwall joined his own soldiers in celebrating his kingship.

  He held out his arms to quiet them, but the tumult continued, and it was many minutes before he was able to speak. Finally he spoke, his voice loud and strong. "King Constantine is dead. May God bless his immortal soul."

  The wave of noise from the troops rose again, not quite as loudly, as many of the troops shouted blessings for Constantine. Uther waited for the shouting to subside and then continued. "My father began a great undertaking before he died, bringing together this mighty alliance, and we are going to see this war through to its victorious finish!"

  Again Uther had to pause, for the shouts from the army were deafening. "This is not just Powys' fight, nor is it only Rheged's or Cornwall's, for all Britannia faces the same peril. Alone, none of us can stand, but united we will drive the invaders into the sea and punish those of our countrymen who have treacherously allied with the barbarians!"

  The cries rose again, thousands of men cheering and shouting the same thing again and again. "Hail the high king, Uther!"

  "Soon we will march. Some of you will go south with me, others north and east with King Urien, but we will still be together, brothers in arms, united against the foe! Our enemies have erred grievously, for they have placed their confidence in their numbers, not reckoning the true strength of free Britons fighting for their homes!"

  He held his fist high in the air as he spoke, and his deep, booming voice carried over the assembled host. The warriors were driven nearly to a frenzy, screaming, banging their swords on their shields, and raising their arms in the air. Those who held banners or standards waved them frantically, and others grabbed torches and timbers from the fires to hold aloft.

  Uther continued, his hands raised high in the air. "I ask naught of you than to fight alongside me, my brothers, for never shall I rest until our foes are beaten and driven before our arms. We will not fear, we will not hesitate, we will not negotiate! To hell we will send all who have despoiled our land and slain our comrades! To hell our blades shall dispatch them in thousands. To hell, where they all belong!"

  The tumult continued as Uther disappeared below the battlements, and when a moment later he walked out of the open main gate, the cheering became even louder, with warriors screaming, pushing, trying to touch his cloak or just get closer as he walked among them. For an hour he strode through the ranks, clasping hands with barons and stopping to ask the names of the lowliest peasant levies. When he was done, the army - Gorlois' and Urien's men as well as the Powys levies - was his. The faltering morale from early defeats and the hard march north was forgotten, and in its place was the spirit of an army aching to follow its commander into any fight. Uther looked around as he walked from cluster to cluster of adoring soldiers and thought to himself, they are ready.

  A woman's scream echoed through the halls of Tintagel Castle, then another, louder one. Outside, a late summer storm raged, and the howling winds whipped the torrential rains around the crenellated tower. Inside, behind the battened windows and great stone walls, there was excitement and activity, for a queen was about to give birth.

  Igraine was lying on the richly made bed, her legs spread wide as the midwife spoke to her in calm, soothing tones. "The baby is almost here, my queen." She spoke softly, and gently rubbed Igraine's sweat-covered brow with a wet cloth. "Now you must push again."

  Igraine breathed deeply and struggled, screaming at the agony. The midwife spoke again, this time excitedly. "The baby is coming. One more great push, my queen, and it shall be done." Igraine's magnificent copper-colored hair was a disheveled mess and her face was drenched with sweat. She clenched her fists and strained again, and then, just as she thought she could push no more, she heard the cries of the baby and the joyful mutterings of the midwife and her ladies.

  "You have a healthy daughter, my queen.” The midwife smiled happily. She took the child over to a basin of warm water and washed her gently before swaddling her in soft cloth. She walked back to Igraine, carrying the newborn bundled in clean white cloth, and handed the child into the waiting arms of the new mother. Igraine took her daughter into her arms and held her tightly. He face was plump and pink, and she had wisps of soft red hair, but it was her eyes that Igraine noticed first, for she had seen that steely gray color before.

  Igraine was exhausted and pale, her bed clothes soaked with sweat. Her ladies cleaned her up and brought her fresh bed coverings, while the midwife took the child and placed her in a small basket, covered in silken blankets.

  It was perhaps an hour later when King Gorlois strode into the room, taking a cursory glance at the child, now sleeping in the basket beside Igraine. "Pleased we are, lady, that you have come through the birth well, though we had rather hoped for a son."

  She looked up at her husband and spoke, her voice toneless and without emotion. "Thank you, my lord. I am sorry that I did not give you a son and heir." His comment would have been hurtful if she truly cared what he thought, but she didn't. Gorlois did not smile exactly, but his dour expression softened slightly. "Worry not, my lady, for you yet shall give me an heir. Rest now." He turned and left the room as abruptly as he'd entered, without so much as another glance at the sleeping newborn.

  Igraine sighed softly and thought about her life at Tintagel. So much had been taken from her, for she'd been forced to leave all she loved behind and journey to a strange land. Gorlois was a callous and cruel man, and little joy did she have in her marriage. She had done her duty in marrying him and accepted her obligations as his wife and queen, but she didn't love the course and thoughtless brute. She didn't even like him. She lived her life caught in a trap, a gilded one with many comforts, but a trap and a cage nonetheless.

  She was achingly alone, for Gorlois would permit none of her former ladies to attend her at Tintagel, and though he'd provided her with a retinue befitting a queen, no friend among t
hem did she have. She saw little of her husband, and that only when he came to her bedchamber, though even then he mounted her like a bull and was done and gone in a few moments. It was nothing like her night with Uther. She smiled sadly as she thought of that brief moment of her life…and of Uther Pendragon.

  Ah, Uther my love, she thought, where are you now? Do you suffer as I do? Are you safe at Caer Guricon, or do you struggle and bleed on the battlefield far from my aid and comfort? God keep you safe, my love, wherever fate may lead you. I do not think I could bear it if you were hurt or slain. Though I know you cannot come home to me, I beg God to spare you that you come home to whatever joys you may find in this life.

  She turned and looked at her sleeping daughter and smiled warmly. "Anna, I shall name you, little one, for such was called Uther's mother. Your grandmother."

  Chapter Six

  The Field of Blood

  478 AD

  Canterbury, Capital of the Kingdom of Kent

  "Since Uther Pendragon has returned our fortunes have taken an ill turn. When we set our bargain, Vortigern, I trusted to your words and plans. The conquest was to be a quick one, yet now we find ourselves pushed back and uncertain…and my brother Horsa slain in your son's defeat at the hands of Leodegrance and Merlin. Seven kingdoms are allied to Powys, and though our early battles were victories, and they looked ripe to fall, none have we yet taken. Too much faith did you place in the Picts, and by their failure the north has been lost, freeing Uther's warriors to face us, and three more victories has he since won. We are driven back everywhere."

  Vortigern sat impassively and listened to the giant Germanic warrior king rant, for he was a vital ally, especially now. Six and a half feet stood Hengist, and as broad and strong as he was tall. Blue eyed, with long blond hair braided down his back, he wore a simple brown tunic belted over leather pants and boots. On his head was a crown, simply cast from bronze and adorned with semi-precious stones in a variety of colors. What a poor excuse for a king, Vortigern thought to himself. He looks like a barbarian pulled from the forest and crowned with a cheap child's toy. Which, of course, is exactly what he is. But he is still useful.