by C. M. Gray
The horse moved beneath him, and he realised they were finally setting off. His attention returned to the warriors that he could see in front of him as they formed into ranks and joined the day's march. Men and women who had gathered here, drawn together in his name.
Riders had been sent out days before Uther's arrival. The fighting men and women of the Britons had been summoned from every tribe that remained at war and were still regularly raiding and clashing with the Saxon invaders. Even now, twenty-five years after the battle at Mount Badon, the different tribes could easily be distinguished by the way they dressed, or if their hair was worn long or cut short, how a group all wore beards grown long while another, calling and joking with them, were all clean shaven. Pennons and banners flew in the breeze, and he noticed that more warriors held identical shields that were decorated with the mark or sign of their clan, tribe or lord. The majority still carried an assortment of mismatched weapons and shields, with most still favouring the spear. Uther could see the horses, chariots and warriors daubed with white or blue handprints, swirls and spirals as the tribes had always done to set them apart.
His chin dropped to his chest and he snapped it back up, was he already dead, or was he somehow still alive? It all seemed like a dream he felt so removed from everything, so remote; Uther Pendragon lost this one battle, this time with consciousness, and slept.
* * *
'A woman demands to see you, we found her, riding alone… a woman, she…' The Saxon warrior who had just burst through the wooden door and ducked beneath the thatch of the entrance, now stood shuffling uncertainly upon the reed-strewn floor. He had left his spear and shield outside and was rubbing his hands together absently to dispel the cold. A simple round helmet was clamped down over his head and beneath his thick wool cloak, he wore the green tunic edged in red that marked him as from one of the northern Germanic tribes. Tearing his eyes away from his lord and protector, he glanced about at the other occupants of the large wooden hall.
As a newcomer to these shores, he had never had reason to enter this structure before. It was of far bigger construction and of a more ornate design than any of the other thirty or so huts that surrounded it in the centre of the village and was, therefore, quite a distraction. Glancing to his side, he confirmed the presence on the doorframe of brightly painted carvings. His eyes followed the twisting, moving shapes up the doorpost and then along beams, following them where they were most plentiful on the heavy beam that fronted the upper sleeping platform. Patterns and rune carvings painted in bright, vivid colours that seemed to jump and dance in the flickering firelight forcing his eyes to follow the scene. He could see bears prowling through vines and trees, wolves and deer running, battles raging and twisting and turning, and throughout, were intricate patterns and swirls.
He became vaguely aware of children's laughter, but as he looked to see where they were his eyes were stopped once more by the sight of several impressive shields leaning against the wall. The laughter sounded again, and his exploring eyes finally made it to the far corner of the hut where three small boys were watching him, distracted from their play with an old dog, its muzzle grey with age, its flapping ears were shredded in testament to its years of faithful service as a hound of war. He swallowed and tried to gather his wits, looking now for the familiar figure of his lord.
Close to the boys, two women were working a handloom; they had ignored his entrance, their heads still bent low to their tasks. Tending a large cooking pot that was suspended by a chain over the central cooking fire was another woman. She was staring at him, still frowning at the unwelcome draught that he had admitted into the hall just moments before, the waft of air having released a flurry of sparks in front of her.
The warrior realised with a sense of alarm that his mouth was hanging open and he quickly closed it with an audible click, which made the boys laugh again, they were still watching him, waiting expectantly for the exchange that was about to take place with their father. Feeling a flush of shame, he quickly turned back to his lord, who sat on a bench on the other side of the fire, watching him, waiting for an answer to a question he hadn't heard.
'I said, you found who riding alone? What are you spluttering about? What woman makes demands upon me at any time, especially now at the end of my day?' Octa scowled at the intrusion, but he was warm and content, and truth be told, he was intrigued by a woman who could so unsettle one of his men, even if it was one who still had his feet wet from the crossing. He tried to remember the warrior's name. He was one of the newcomers, come to find his place in this green land so rich in soil and plunder. He watched as the warrior fidgeted with his single, dull metal armband, after finally returning his wandering gaze.
'A woman has ridden in, Lord. She wears the black robes of the Christians and stands like a crow waiting to pluck the eyes from my face. Lord… she has no escort and rides past our guards demanding to speak with you. We turned her away, yet she will not leave and insists upon an audience without delay. She contends that you will speak with her. She talks of aiding you with a wergild, a debt of blood for which she knows you seek payment.'
Octa smiled, now even more intrigued by the distraction of this visitor. 'A woman that dresses like a crow and speaks of wergild? I shall keep my eyes covered, to be sure. However, if she is one of the Christians, I doubt she carries weapons, and if she does, then I'm sure my boys will defend their father.' He laughed, opened his arms and the boys came charging over and leapt into their father's lap. 'Bid her enter.'
The warrior ducked out, pulling the wooden door closed behind him with a bang. Octa hugged his boys and then sent them to play back in their corner, the dog wagging its tail enthusiastically at their boisterous return to its company. He smiled, watching them as they giggled happily, the dog trying to lick at their faces, its huge tattered head, nuzzling them affectionately.
The doorway creaked open again, and a slim figure, covered from head to foot in folds of black cloth ducked low to enter. This truly is a crow that has come to visit me, thought Octa as he made the sign of protection, the description was not unwarranted; a shiver of superstitious fear ran through him at the simile. He studied her as the crow-woman slowly stood straight, squinting slightly as her sight became accustomed to the light within the hall, quickly scanning the space about her as she threw back the hood of her cloak.
The woman's skin was pale, made almost white by the contrast of her long black hair and lips shown red from the cold of the early winter evening even in the gloom, she was quite beautiful he realised, but in an unsettling way. Before either she or Octa could say anything, the old war-hound stood and took a pace towards her, hackles rising as it gave a low, threatening growl, the ageing pet once more the hound of war as it readied to protect its charges from the intruder. For a moment the people in the hall became silent, and then the animal took another step towards her, its growl growing louder. She cast a quick glance in his direction, before raising a hand towards the dog; the index and little fingers extended while the rest of her hand clenched into a fist. Her head tipped forward and, as she stared at the dog, she made a small keening sound and slowly lowered her hand. The dog responded immediately, tail dropping, it slowly sank to the ground and lowered its head between its paws and then whimpering, it shuffled back to the protective embrace of the three boys.
One of the women working the loom hissed and made a sign of protection while her companion picked up a knife and made to rise, but Octa was already on his feet.
'Witchcraft? You bring dark magic to my hearth?' He advanced towards the visitor, the long blade of his seax held before him, but as he got closer, he saw she was smiling.
'I bring no magic into your home, Lord Octa. A simple trick to confound an old dog. I apologise, I do not wish you, nor your kin, any insult or injury; I am at your mercy.' She bowed her head and spread her arms wide in formal supplicancy. 'The fact of the matter is that this evening, after travelling almost all of the day, I come to you tired and unprotected,
seeking only to bring honour and victory to you and your people.' Octa lowered his blade and, after a moment, waved towards the fire, indicating that his visitor should sit, which she did with obvious relief, plainly exhausted from her journey.
'You are a guest in my village and in my home, and as such I welcome you, we were about to begin our meal, you will join us.' It was said as a statement of fact rather than an invitation. He signalled to the woman tending the fire and watched silently as first a bowl of steaming meal stew was offered and then a smaller bowl of warm apple wine was poured and set before his guest.
'I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Octa.' The woman sipped some of the fragrant brew and then placed the bowl in front of her. 'I am the Abbess Morgana. I lead a small group of sisters in the worship of our Lord at the Abbey at Holy Glastening. Are you familiar with our Abbey my Lord?'
Octa accepted his own bowl of stew and then nodded. 'Although I have not yet been there, we know of the Abbey, because…' - he waved his hands as he thought of the correct words - 'our… contacts… have told us that your King Uther is there dying, yes?' He fished out a piece of eel from the bowl and gnawed the meat from the central bone before tossing it towards the dog. The old hound lifted its head to glance towards the offering, but then went back to sleep, giving a low whining sigh, Octa shook his head.
'Until recently, King Uther was indeed a guest at our Abbey, in fact, he was under my personal care.' Morgana took another sip of the wine and then set her bowl down and smoothed her robe. 'Now, however, the King has risen. He was summoned by the Druids and has now returned to his warriors. As we sit here enjoying the heat of your hearth, he is preparing to lead the tribes against you and your men when you meet at Valerum.'
'How can a dying man lead troops? The reports that I received claimed that he was standing at the gates of the Shadowland, that his light was almost gone from this world… were those reports incorrect?'
'Your informant did not lie. The King has been gravely ill and had almost passed. I did not think there was anything else that could be done for him. His spirit had faded, he had not taken sustenance for many days, his body was weak and he was more than halfway towards death.'
'Yet he now walks and leads men to battle, this half dead King? Something is not right with this; your Druids have enchanted him with their spells.' Octa gazed into the flames of the fire. 'And why do you, a Briton, come to me with this news? Do you seek to profit some favour or plead with me? To perhaps gain some kind of promise that we will not raid your Abbey for its gold and silver or turn me from my task of making this a Saxon land?'
'There is no gold or silver at Glastening and I seek no favour from you, Lord Octa, I come offering you information and ask nothing from you in return. I know you have wergild, a debt of blood to collect from King Uther, he killed your uncle, Lord Horsa, when you were still a child and I have heard it said that you have long wished this debt paid. I bring you information, but I have my own reasons for doing this. I will have the King returned to my care before you kill him and you will help me accomplish this.' Taking a small clay bottle from her cloak, Morgana leant forward and held it out. Octa sat back and stared down at the flask for a moment before glancing up questioningly at his guest.
'There is a grove to the west of Valerum that is sacred to the Druids; your raiding parties will no doubt know of it. The King will rest there before he meets with you in battle, or perhaps after. I do not know which, but I have seen that he will be there.' Morgana waved a hand dismissively. 'Anyway, there is a pool in the grove into which you must tip this potion. It will only bring an affect upon King Uther.'
'You say you have seen he will be there? You have the gift?' Octa glanced across to the women working the loom; they had both stopped and were listening to the exchange. The elder of the two gave a barely perceptible nod, and Octa returned his attention to Morgana. He stared into her eyes for a moment and then, reaching out, he took the bottle. 'Let us hope he visits before the battle commences, this half dead King of yours is a bad omen… an evil omen. I care not for your motives in this, but we will treat him to your potion and may Loki choose to cast him down.' He smiled, studying his guest. 'You didn't start fluttering and crossing yourself at the mention of one of my Gods, yet you wear the black of the Christian priests and you have that,' he pointed to the simple wooden cross hanging from a cord around her neck. 'You are a strange one; you are not like the Christians who come to preach amongst my people.' He smiled and gestured towards the cross again. 'You are not a real follower of this nailed god are you? You, I sense are something more.'
Morgana's hand touched the cross and drew in a breath. 'I follow many teachings, Lord Octa. I find truths and messages come to those who will take the time to listen. Truth passes through many lips, through countless ears and are attributed to many Gods. Yes, I listen and pray to the one God of the Christians, I find it prudent in many ways, but I also listen and speak with the old Gods, for, more often than not, it is they who speak to me the loudest.' She drew back her sleeve to show an intricately inked design that covered her forearm, a serpent that wrapped around and around her arm in writhing coils, only to reappear again to bite its own tail.
Octa studied the serpent, admiring the artistry as Morgana twisted her arm, the snake seeming to move in the flickering firelight. 'I evoked the name of Loki earlier, and it seems that was not just some idle twist of my tongue, for is not your serpent the image of Midgardsormr, which is the seed of Loki? So, you follow the old Gods of my people too?'
Morgana nodded and covered her arm.
Octa smiled. 'Sometimes the Gods put things in our path as some kind of test, they play with us and make for us challenges, and then they drink their mead and ale while they wager against each other, laughing at us as we try to determine what they would have us do. You have brought me such a challenge and I feel their eyes upon us at this very moment seeing which way this game shall be played. You know that I cannot disappoint my Gods.'
Chapter 4
The Half Dead King
'The King has been wounded, he bleeds. Bear him from the battlefield lest this day of victory is wrought with the sorrow of his death.'
Uther heard the words amongst the screams and cries of battle, felt the pain, which was a sudden, bright, stabbing light through the fog of his understanding and could feel his lifeblood as it pumped wetly from his wounded neck in thick, sticky, throbbing beats.
Unable to move from still being strapped to his horse, and incapable of seeing properly thanks to the limitations of the helm that had, ultimately, saved him from a mortal blow, Uther Pendragon allowed others to guide him from the field. If anything, it was a release from a day where he had felt little more than a garlanded piece of meat, displayed like a stuffed swan on the Samhain feasting table. A day spent as a painted figurehead paraded up and down the battlefield as ranks of screaming warriors shouted and screeched their encouragement, which had almost, but not quite, covered the taunts and insults being hurled from the Saxon ranks just beyond, as they writhed and howled behind their own bristling wall of shields.
'Half-dead King,' those Saxons had called him, and he had felt it, half-dead and little more than half-alive. With his breath rasping loud in his ears, echoing and bouncing around his helm along with the jolting motion of his horse, he had wobbled and bounced behind the fluttering pennons and screaming figures of Sir Ector and the other senior tribesmen as they drove the men and women under their commands into a frenzy ready for battle. He had tried to focus on the warriors through the narrow field of vision offered by the helm, but his head was moving so much that it was hard to focus properly, so eventually he had closed his eyes and tried to find a better place.
He could imagine what was playing out around him amid the noise and chaos. He was aware that the warrior, Maude, rode to his right side, protecting him as best she could, shield raised; while Arthur and his priest, Joseph, had ridden behind them and Sir Ector and his men to the fore. Stones, mud, and fouler th
ings had been the first objects to be hurled from the Saxon ranks to his right, banging and bouncing from the protective shield of Maude, while behind him he could hear the priest whimpering and wailing, complaining incessantly at the futility and injustice of a priest being upon the field of battle.
'I cannot preach to the heathen, nor can I call down the fire of God's justice upon them while we parade like this. It is a mockery of my station to be here; I am a man of God, not a fighter.' The wheedling voice had receded from Uther's hearing as the ranks of spearmen began to swarm forward, taunting both the Saxons and each other as the mead and ale continued to flow, and courage and daring rose to its peak level.
As the procession had turned at the end of the line and yet again made its way forward, the missiles rained upon them once more, along with laughter and mocking insults, which, in reality, Uther knew to be fact rather than insult, for he was indeed a half-dead King. If Uther Pendragon had still possessed just the smallest shred of his former dignity, then surely, it would have withered and died right there without the need for blade or arrow, upon the meadow outside the town of Valerum. Yet he did not die, and he felt no concern for the taunts, for any shred of dignity that he had once possessed had long since been flayed from his soul.