The Shadow of a King (Shadowland Book 2)

by C. M. Gray

  The first of the horses came through the great wooden arch and entered the old Roman courtyard, the sound of their hooves clattering and echoing around the stone enclosure. Sir Ector was third in line, he pulled his horse to the side and dismounted with no little difficulty and stood swaying before Morgana. He appeared to be stiff and even wearier than the last time she had seen him. Blood splattered the front of his tunic, and he had a dirty rag tied about a wound on his forearm which he favoured, cradling it protectively with his other arm.

  'Morgana, a good day to you.' He glanced at her then around the Abbey, clearly unhappy about being back so soon. Stretching his back he gestured towards the open cart that was still creaking and struggling up the small incline towards them.

  'Our King is not well again; we know not what afflicts him. He took a small wound on the field of battle, a gash to his neck, lots of blood, but it did not sever his lifeline. If that had been cut, we would never have stopped the bleeding.' He rubbed at his sore arm, then drew a breath and looked her in the eyes. 'The battle was long and especially tiring for him, but whatever it is that ails him now, it is more than just fatigue and a scratch to the neck.' Sir Ector turned at the sound of skittering hooves, but it was nothing, one of his men was calming his horse, the huge animal was highly stressed after the recent battle and obviously unhappy to be within the enclosed courtyard once again; he turned back to Morgana.

  'We are both now aware that Merlyn had him under some sort of enchantment, but whatever it was, it has evidently deserted him. The Druid told us to bring him back here and place him directly into your care.' Sir Ector leaned closer: 'Morgana… Uther is dying again. I don't know if you can save him this time. I believe it may indeed be more of a kindness to allow him to pass in some comfort and peace.' The cart finally arrived, and the two stepped to the side and watched as Uther was unloaded and taken into the Abbey under the guidance of several nuns and the grim, sad figure of Maude, the King's protector. Morgana noticed that Uther's armour had already been removed, but that he still wore the dirty stained clothing that he had dressed in prior to battle. His eyes were closed, and he looked as white as the thin shroud with which one of the nuns was trying to cover him, he looked, very much, as if he may already be dead. Laid out on a simple wooden plank, his arms had fallen to the sides and were swaying with the movement of the board; he made a pitiful sight.

  'Hurry sisters. Place the King in his former chamber; I shall attend him shortly.' Morgana turned back to Sir Ector. 'You may leave here now, your duty has been done. The King has now been returned into our hands, and we shall care for him. Take your men, your battles, and your blood and leave this holy place.'

  Sir Ector took a deep breath, and after a moment smiled and shook his head slightly as if deciding against a parting remark of his own. He and Morgana had never seen eye to eye, and that was not about to change now. He turned and accepted his horse's reins from one of his men, and taking a firm hold of the saddle's pommel, heaved himself back up whilst shouting, 'Mount!' The sound echoed around the confined space as Sir Ector, followed by his men, turned his horse around towards the gate and spurred it into motion, out into the cold afternoon air to be mocked once again by the crows.

  'Lay him upon the cot… carefully sisters, carefully. He has taken enough knocks and offences to his person. We shall care for him now as befits our King.' Morgana watched as the two nuns began to remove the King's soiled garments, being careful to treat their King with the care and reverence he was due. Sir Ector's men had already been removed the heavy mail vest, but they cut his tunic and surcoat away revealing his linen camisia, the thin undergarment was soaked with dried blood and stuck to his skin. A bowl of water was called for and then placed on the floor beside the cot; a cloth was used to dribble water onto the camisia until it gradually relinquished its hold upon the King's body. The wound itself had stopped bleeding some time past, yet it still appeared red and angry, and when probed it was seen to be leaking a clear, slightly cloudy fluid.

  Morgana inspected it, touching and prodding the livid flesh before sniffing at both the wound and then the King's breathe, taking notice of his white complexion and slow breathing as she did. 'We must cleanse the wounded flesh, and if it continues to weep so, then we may be required to cauterise it with a hot iron. For now, use fresh urine to bathe it and then apply a honey salve. We must keep the evil humours at bay.'

  'Yes, Abbess.' The nuns continued, gently removing the soiled linen, cleaning the thin, lifeless body with the wet cloth. Morgana noticed Maude standing by the side of the door. The female warrior appeared lost and uncertain of what she was doing there in the cell.

  'You do not have to be here, we can care for the King, he is in the hands of God; you have done all you can for him.' For a few moments the girl didn't move, but then she turned towards Morgana and shook her head.

  'He was in my care. The battle was finished, he… he did not seem to be so badly hurt.' She shook her head as if to clear it. 'I was assigned to him, and I shall not leave his side. Do what you will to make him well, I will not get in your way, but I am not leaving.'

  Morgana frowned. 'As you wish.' She turned back to the nuns. 'I shall prepare a hot infusion; we shall attempt to improve the King's vigour and rekindle the flame of his health. Let us give our King the very best care, sisters. And pray for him as you work, our King now needs our prayers to guide him through this terrible time.' Morgan ignored the King's protector and watched as the nuns worked, and as she did, she smiled, it had taken a little time and no little manipulation, but Uther Pendragon was now back in her care.

  The first few weeks of the King's return to Glastening Abbey passed with Uther seemingly unaware of the world about him. His battered and weakened body lay in the damp cell and was cared for by the nuns who cleaned, fed and prayed over him day and night. However, while his body lay still, his mind wasn't bound by the tortures of his flesh. Memories and dreams plagued his spirit, transporting him through a bewildering series of events and improbable dialogues. Some of his past experiences returned to be lived once more, such as his first contact with the sword Excalibur, handed to him wrapped in a dirty cloth by Merlyn and then thrust once more deep into a block of stone to await another. The incredible jolt of bonding with the weapon was relived once again and evoked such a strong emotion that his body had jumped and twitched, scaring the nuns who had been praying at his side. Of course, he was unaware of the distress he had caused his carers and his body had calmed quickly as the dreams moved on so that once again, he was holding his newborn son up to the first light of dawn knowing he must give him up; the still body of Uther Pendragon wept.

  Laughter, tears, and screams of anger filled his mind. Flashes of colour, looming faces and flocks of crows, always there were crows. Sorrow and loss overwhelmed him as he learned of the death of his closest friend. How could it have happened? Once again he agonised over the mystery of his friend's death. Oh, Cal… He had found him lying on the pile of sleeping furs, Cal's body slick with blood, so much blood. It looked as if someone had entered the sleeping shelter and speared him where he lay, yet the guards at the door had not let anyone pass, and there was no way an enemy who was set upon murder could have entered unseen. It was one of the greatest mysteries of his time. Yet, only Uther had known of his friend's nocturnal life, when Cal's mind and spirit had travelled in the body of a wolf. It had been the wolf that had been killed, Uther knew that, but somehow the blow had also killed the body of Cal. Uther had never managed to get over Cal's death, even though it was just one death amongst so many that he had witnessed over the years.

  Strange hallucinations began to plague him. Evil spirits that laughed and teased him as they tried to pull him towards dark and forbidding places. Fear and panic overwhelmed him as he struggled desperately attempting to break free, and when he did and made to run it felt as if his legs were soft and weak and he found it impossible to place one foot in front of the other. This dream, of course, faded as all dreams eventually
did, yet this was sleep not easy to awaken from, and another quickly replaced each wondrous, terrible or delirious dream.

  Once, he felt himself completely awake, high in the wooden watch tower of Tintagel fortress. Waves were pounding on the cliffs far below, and a breeze was strong and salty as he gazed out over the great expanse of the sea towards the distant land of Erin. He knew it was there, beyond where the moon shimmered and the clouds gathered low on the horizon. He could tell that Igraine wasn't here, knew she wasn't in Tintagel anymore, for some reason the remembrance of her passing came as a renewed shock, overwhelming him as the grief hit him like a solid hit to his chest and he felt himself fall, out of the window, down through the cold, dark, wet air towards rocks that rushed up to greet him. Yet before he met the ground, his mind turned itself inwards once more, and a Druid was squatting on a rock staring at him, cackling and pointing as Uther swayed upon weak, uncertain legs.

  'Thou art the Pendragon.' As the Druid spoke, Uther's gaze was drawn to his lips, wet and red, drawn back in a toothless mocking grin. Small flecks of spittle and acorns erupted with each word, and Uther felt himself step back, 'Thou art the Pendragon, tis true, yet for now, thou art but a half-dead King.' Cackling laughter faded into an uncertain distance as Uther sank away to be embraced once more by his sorrow and his grief.

  It was the rain that finally woke him. The soft sounds of it splashing and splattering onto the stones below the small window and echoing up into his cell. Once his mind had identified water, then it was the nagging thought of it, a drink of water so incredibly precious, because his neglected body was so, so thirsty that he was dragged up and out of his dreams.

  Returning, surfacing back into the world of man demanded that he had to claw and pull himself upwards as if from a deep, dark well. He struggled through thick veils of consciousness that needed to be parted and pushed away as dreams and distractions sought to hold on to him, to lure him back into their deep, warm, languid embrace. But the thought of sweet, cool water drew him on, each effort to reach the surface taking him closer and closer until…

  'Water… water…' He heard voices, he couldn't tell what they were saying, and his eyes remained stubbornly closed so he couldn't see who was close to him. He felt his head lifted gently, and a rough, cold object touched against his lips. Water spilled, dribbling down his cheeks into his beard and he opened his mouth, desperate to feel it enter, and then he felt the cold bite of it pass his teeth, flow over his parched tongue and then trickle down into his throat. Which of course made him cough and splutter, and sent his head spinning.

  Once he had recovered, he drank again, this time managing to swallow some without coughing it back up. All too soon it was taken away, and his head gently laid back down. He was exhausted. There were still voices, but he couldn't tell what was being said. His head hurt, it was pounding, and his eyes seemed to be glued shut, he couldn't open them. He reached up with trembling fingers and teased first one and then the other open. Light exploded in his head, and he snapped his eyes shut again, rubbing at them with clenched fists, a low moan escaping his cracked lips. As his head was lifted a second time, he managed to open his eyes, just a little, to see the proffered cup.

  'Drink my Lord… please.'

  Uther sipped a little more and glanced up into the face of Maude. He stared at her mouth, which was a thin hard line of concern; it was strangely fascinating.

  'I shall tell the Abbess that you have awoken, my Lord. They have been praying for you; there always seems to be a few here,' - she glanced about her at the empty cell - 'they must have stepped out. I prayed to the old Gods,' she whispered, 'I knew you would return.' She smiled down at him and lowered his head once more. Uther closed his eyes, the efforts of drinking having already taxed his strength.

  As his mind sought rest, his head filled with images of battle and the memories of his humiliating final days, riding tied to his horse as a figurehead for his warriors, and of Maude ever at his side. That his life had come to this, a life that at one time had felt so blessed and charmed as he undertook to bring the tribes together under the single Pendragon banner. Tribes that for years had existed in peace yet had been held apart under their separate identities and subject to the rule of Rome. And then one day, the Romans had departed, just packed up their carts and gone, but Saxons from the continent had been quick to recognise the opportunity. Firstly they had raided, attacking the small settlements close to the coast, killing, raping and burning before taking to their boats and the safety of the sea. But then, once they found so little resistance, they began to arrive in greater numbers upon the shores of what the Romans had called Britain, what Uther and his friends had simply called home, and the Saxons, and then the Jutes, and Angles, began to settle in greater numbers.

  Uther had just been a boy, leading a happy, easy childhood in an Iceni village, until through a series of events that still seemed somewhat of a blur, he had found himself rising to become leader of the united tribes. He had gone on to spend many years clashing with the Saxons, trying to force them back towards the eastern coast while the Saxons sought to push the Celts back towards the west while they took full control and settled the fertile lands, first of the Iceni and then the Trinovantes and Catuvellauni. To the frustration of the tribes, more and more boats had arrived every year after the winter storms, each longboat carrying more Saxons, Jutes and Angles from across the sea, - desperate, aggressive people that not only made war but were greedy for the tribal lands. Yet, for the most part during Uther's reign, the tribes had managed to slow and often halt the spread of Saxon rule. They had managed to keep the western part of their lands free of settlers and Arthur still had a Kingdom.

  'You are smiling. When I was called to attend you, I thought I might arrive to find you dying, not smiling. You look as though you just kissed the Beltane Queen.'

  Uther surfaced from his thoughts and slowly managed to part his eyelids. Morgana was sitting close to his side, wringing out a wet cloth. She must have just wiped his face, but he hadn't felt it.

  'Welcome back to the land of man, you have slept for quite some time. I have sent your puppy, Maude, out on an errand. She fusses over you while you sleep and has been spending far too much time in here getting in the way of my nuns, but she will be upset that she was not here when you finally awoke. Where have you been, where have your dreams taken you while you have been away from us, Uther?'

  Uther's head was swimming, and his head was pounding. 'I was…' his voice felt weak in his raw, dry throat. 'I was… thinking about Arthur. Thinking… thinking how, despite everything, that he might still have a Kingdom after all this is done. That maybe it wasn't just another battle that will mean nothing, the same as so many of the others seem to have been for nothing when we cast our minds back. I was daring to think that this time, we might possibly have done as Merlyn proclaimed and stopped the spread of Saxon rule, stopped their settlers long enough to…' a fit of coughing took him and pain lanced up his side and pounded in his head as his wounds came back to remind him of their presence.'

  'Rest Uther. I have faith that you will heal with our help, but I am a great believer in sleep to aid in that healing. If your body tells you to rest, then do as it asks and sleep. Here, drink this.' She gently lifted his head and held a clay cup against his lips. It was warm and aromatic with the smell of summer pastures and warm, soft hay. He looked up at her as he sipped feeling the warmth spread through his body as it slipped down his throat.

  'This is a herbal infusion of my own making,' said Morgana smiling down at him. 'It is a blend of camomile and feverfew to bring you rest, some mint and yarrow to aid in the healing of your wounds and the essence of a few other plants to help loosen the secrets from your mind. Rest and sleep will assist in the healing of your body. However, we must also place no little concern for the healing of your mind and of your soul, and for this we must talk. You will tell me the truth of your life so that we can unravel the mysteries and make you whole, both within this life and also in t
he eyes of our Lord. You are going to say of how you first met my mother, the truth of what transpired and why she would never tell me what truly happened to my father. This shall be your real healing, Uther, and I shall be your confessor so that you may heal without any guilt upon your soul… are you, perhaps, ready to bear your testimony?'

  Uther Pendragon gazed up into the stern black eyes of Morgana and tried to order his thoughts. It felt strange that he would tell all to Morgana le Fey, yet strangely he also felt somewhat compelled. She tilted his head, and he drank a little more of the brew. It continued to warm him, seeping down inside him to send a glow out through his body, and felt good. He glanced up into her kindly face and felt a growing urge to explain everything, all his thoughts and dreams, his schemes and confidences. It suddenly felt that it would be such a relief to purge his mind and body of all the secrets that he carried… and so he drank more.

  'What should I tell you? What would I say? You know I do not follow your nailed God. I am a Pagan in the eyes of many.'

  'You are the son of God and a good man, Uther. I want to know more of you. You knew my mother of course, but you also knew my father, and I still do not truly know what happened to him, except I am told that he was one of your staunchest allies and was with you when you all took ship to the Isle of Erin to bring back the stones. I was very young then, but I remember on a warm sunny day, waving and shouting as part of the crowd of onlookers as the ships made ready to sail away. It was late in the year, so although the sun was warm, there was a cold breeze tugging at my hair and making all the pennons and banners flutter and flap as the people and warriors gathered on the beaches. I remember you there too. Walking through the crowds talking to people, smiling and making jokes so they wouldn't worry about the journey you were going to make.' She smiled and closed her eyes as she remembered that day so long ago. 'Do you remember seeing me? I was just a little girl back then, of about eight summers. You ruffled my hair and said I was as pretty as the day. All around us sacks and provisions were being taken out to the boats through the surf, it was a wonderful day that I remember so well.' She stopped smiling, her face becoming stern again as she gazed down into Uther's face. 'Yet something terrible happened on that voyage, I know that. You must tell me everything; you will tell me, Uther Pendragon. I need to know, and you need to tell. We have as long a time as is necessary to bleed the poison from your soul, and you will begin by answering an extremely simple question, why was it that you all sailed to the Isle of Erin?'