by C. M. Gray
It was late in the day when the first warriors jumped down from the silent boats onto the marshy land that bordered the river estuary and quickly formed up into a shield wall. They marched steadily towards the encroaching woodland while others jumped down behind them and drove huge stakes into the soft earth to tether the boats. A short while later runners returned to report that nobody native to Erin was waiting to meet them, neither in friendship nor in ambush. Uther had them set up watches and patrols while small trees were cut and a simple stockade erected for those being left to guard the boats.
'Most strange, Uther.' Merlyn was staring towards the trees and then up along the wide estuary towards the distant mountain that now stood tall and foreboding, just a short way distant. 'I am sure that our landing must have been noted. I would have expected a delegation of some kind to have approached us by now. I'm sure they will arrive soon. The settlement of Difelyn is just a short walk along the banks of this river, and I know that there are Druids here, both up on the mountain and also close to the village. If we remain without contact until morning, then I would suggest that we approach with a just a small group, no more than one hundred warriors would be correct until we know how we are to be received.'
'We shall do as you suggest, Merlyn.' Uther was about to turn away when he noticed several men leave the forest some distance away to stand watching, leaning on long spears. A few, large shaggy dogs ran about them sniffing at the ground, tails wagging.
'I think our presence has been noticed,' said Uther.
After a few moments and several words exchanged, one of the spearmen began walking towards them through the long grass. Others in Uther's party had noticed them then, and several came up to stand beside him, including Sir Ector and Duc Gerlois. Merlyn took a step forward and raised a hand in welcome, yet the walking man continued to stride on and did not respond.
'He doesn't look too pleased to see us,' said Sir Ector as he fingered the sword belted at his waist. 'He's not one of your Druids then, Merlyn?'
'No, Sir Ector, he is no Druid. He is a warrior from Difelyn, and I am sure he comes to find out why we have visited their shores. Imagine if you were close to your settlement and you came across several hundred armed warriors, what would you be thinking? What would you do?' Merlyn turned his attention back to the new arrivals. 'His friends are still watching, let us see how welcoming our hosts wish to be.'
'Whatever his intentions, he is somewhat courageous to be walking alone towards the likes of us,' rumbled Gerlois, 'very brave, or possibly he could simply be incredibly foolish?'
The man was getting closer now, wading through the long grass. The way he swung his spear, planting it in front of himself with every stride made it seem that he was propelling himself forward upon a boat pushing through the waves of a lush green sea. His short robe was flapping about bare knees, and as he got closer, they could see that a scowl was set upon his grim face while upon his head, he wore a flat hat of some kind. As he neared, he called out in a strange guttural tongue and waved his arms in the air to emphasise some point or other as he pointed across towards the river and the boats clustered there.
Everyone looked at Merlyn. 'What, by the spirits, is he saying?' asked Uther. 'Do you speak whatever tongue that is?' The man halted some twenty paces from them, hands on his hips, the breeze blowing the fringe of hair about his face. He still showed an absence of fear at being so close to so many armed and warlike strangers.
'You speak our tongue, do you not, my friend?' Merlyn smiled at the man, then took a step towards him, made a sign in the air, and bowed deeply. 'We come to your land in peace. We are visitors from across the sea, and this man is our leader, King Uther Pendragon of the Britons.'
The man glanced from Merlyn to Uther and then copied the sign Merlyn had made before bowing. 'I speak yer tongue, right well. You may call me Dara. Will it be this man, yer King, who shall make the challenge of me?'
'Challenge? Must we challenge you to gain passage through this land?' Uther glanced across at Merlyn and then back to Dara.
'We have exchanged names, and now it is only fitting that your champion should cross blades or staff with me,' Dara tilted his head as if questioning the concept of a challenge. 'It is our way.'
'And you are the champion of your people?' asked Uther. He glanced across to the other warriors who still waited, far back, close to the woodland. 'We have no need to fight with anyone. We have said, we come with only peaceful intentions.'
'Well, yer still have a need to fight with me,' Dara grinned and turned his spear in the air, spinning it around and swooping it from side to side, it disappeared around his back, and then came back in front to a juddering halt, the end vibrating with the shock of it and the point aimed squarely at Uther's face. 'I stand in your path, and I am indeed a …a… champion of my people, one of them anyway, we have many.' He raised the spear, leant on it, then standing upon one leg he lifted his foot and rested it on the calf of the other; he was still grinning.
Several of Uther's men started to speak at the same time, each either begging or demanding the opportunity to wipe the smile off the spearman's face. Uther placed a hand upon Sir Ector's shoulder but then pointed at Cunobelin.
'Very well. I name the warrior, Cunobelin, as our champion.'
The Trinovantes warrior unclasped his cloak, allowed it to fall from his shoulders and reached out to take the spear one of his men was offering. Scowling, and with his eyes firmly clasped upon his opponent's, Cunobelin walked forward, whirling the spear in his own display of proficiency.
There were calls of encouragement from many as warriors gathered around, others coming from near the ships, laughing and shouting to one another, excited by the diversion. They moved to form a large ring around the two men leaving them plenty of room to fight.
Dara was grinning still, dancing around the edge of the circle, spinning and jumping as if in great delight like some maiden at her first Beltane dance. Uther glanced across to the trees, but the spearman's companions seemed unconcerned by what was happening, but now there were only two. They were just watching, standing as Dara had, each upon one leg, leaning on their spears.
The fighters circled each other, Cunobelin side stepping while Dara continued to dance as if it were all just so much fun. A few exploratory thrusts and slashes were made by each man, but for some time there was little real contact as each took the measure of the other. The crowd of warriors began to weary of the wait for blood.
'Get him, Cunobelin.'
'Knock that silly smile from his face.'
'Stop playing with him and…'
Cunobelin struck. The two men had been circling, oblivious to the noise and distractions about them, but now, after a lifetime of fighting the warlike Saxon, Cunobelin had already taken the measure of his opponent and made his attack. The spearman, Dara, was dancing and hopping all over the place, but there was a rhythm to it, and Cunobelin had obviously measured it. Feinting with the top of his spear as if about to strike Dara's head, Cunobelin reversed and swept the bottom of the spear around to take out the man's legs. Shock registered on Dara's face as he fell heavily. The watching warriors became silent, before roaring their approval.
Walking to the far side of the circle, Cunobelin waited for his opponent to rise, which he did, quickly. The smile was gone, as was the hat, it now lay crumpled on the grass. The spear twisted in the air again, and Dara nodded to Cunobelin, possibly in acknowledgement of a worthy opponent. Then the two combatants took a moment to assess one another again, and then the fight was back on.
The two men rushed to the centre, and the clash of wood meeting wood rang loud again and again. Dara was definitely more focused now, and Cunobelin took several hits to his body. The dancing had stopped, and he was altering the blows that he threw, quickly pressing Cunobelin hard, but the Trinovante had spent too much time on the battlefield to trade blows for long. On the field of battle, when the world turned to madness, the life of a fight was measured in heartbeats. There wa
s no time for style or technique, no time to wait around and see what the murderous whoreson that was trying to kill you might do. It was kill or be killed and be on to the next enemy, the other one, two, or more bastards who were running towards you, screaming out their hatred as they brought blood-splattered blades and spears down to cleave and stab into your flesh and bone.
The two fighters traded a flurry of heavy blows as they circled, and then Cunobelin, launched a wicked overhand thrust that almost struck home, forcing Dara to duck low and step backwards, almost tripping as he did. Cunobelin leapt after him and knocked his opponent's spear upward, kicking out at the exposed knee as he did. He felt his blow strike true, and the man cried out and fell.
For the briefest moment, Cunobelin stood over the fallen man with the point of his spear at the other's throat, and then he stepped back and allowed Merlyn to move in and tend him.
After a few moments probing, Merlyn looked up. 'The leg is not broken.' He looked relieved. He glanced back at Cunobelin, and then at Uther, as he crouched down beside the fallen spearman.
'You fought well, friend Dara,' said Uther, 'but we have come to your land in the spirit of peace. You gave your friends back there enough time to get away and warn the settlement that we had landed. That's why you made your challenge to us, isn't it?'
Dara looked up at him, the grin now back on his face despite the pain he must be feeling.
'Aye, I looked to delay yer for sure. We thought you, Saxon when first we took sight of yer, and we find the Saxon to be a most disagreeable people.'
'We are no friend of the Saxon, and we wish no ill upon your people.' Uther glanced across at Merlyn and then continued. 'We journey upon a quest, charged to us by the Druids upon the Isle of Mona, Ynys Mon. We are looking to correct a great wrong that was brought upon our people by the Saxons. The same invaders have also entered our lands. We came here seeking the stones that stand upon the great mountain.'
'Well,' Dara made to rise, and Uther and Merlyn took an arm each and helped him to his feet. Cunobelin handed him his spear and Dara leant heavily upon it, testing his leg. 'If it is the stones yer seek, the ones we call The Giant's Dance, then yer have but a day of travel ahead of yer. But first yer must visit the Druids who care for the stones before you can set yer feet upon the mountain. You will find the Druids at the cave, close to where the path leaves the forest. One of our people will guide yer.'
'We would be grateful for this,' said Uther, while Merlyn beamed happily at the man, but then Dara's smile dropped. He looked from Uther to the men immediately around them, and then back to the many armed men who had resumed the work of erecting the stronghold close to the boats.
'Of course, if yer planning on staying, and it is more than just visiting the stones that yer after, then you will have to meet the Stranger.'
'The Stranger?' asked Uther. 'Who is this Stranger?'
'If you seek to move the stones, as legend has said that men will try to do, then you must convince Uath the Stranger, that you are worthy.'
'And where will we find this Uath, so that we might convince him?
'The Druids know,' Dara glanced at Merlyn, 'this Druid knows as well, yer can be sure of it. This, after all, is the way with Druids, is it not? Come on. Tricky buggers all of them.' He grinned. 'Follow me.'
Dara turned and strode off back across the field as if he had not just taken a heavy blow to his leg. Uther and his men began to follow. One of the dogs ran across to greet Dara as they approached, it barked savagely at those that followed, but Dara hushed it with a word and a gesture, and it fell into step by his side.
Uther turned to Merlyn. 'Uath the Stranger? Do you know what this is about Merlyn? But then, why do I ask, of course you do. This is just one more time when I find that all is not as I thought, and that you are just playing with us as if we were runes made of bone being cast down upon the dirt by your feet, rather than living breathing men.'
'Oh, come, Uther, do you really think I would bring you into a situation where I thought you could not triumph?'
'I think, Druid, that you would do whatever you thought necessary to accomplish your needs and wishes, and that I am merely one of your runes.' He moved away to walk with Sir Ector and Cunobelin. Uther put his hand upon Cunobelin's shoulder and congratulated him; then the three men started to discuss the fight, talking in low voices.
'When the lives of men and Druids meet there is often confusion,' said Duc Gerlois coming up to Merlyn's side. 'I think we are in for some interesting days. I wonder who shall survive and who shall fall and be left behind upon this far shore?'
Chapter 10
Morgana Le Fey
'Abbess, are you well? Can we aid you? Are you ill?'
Morgana felt a jolt and opened her eyes. She realised she was kneeling, in the herbage garden, between soft waving fennel to one side and the pretty yellow and white flowers of feverfew to the other.
'Oh, my…' She must have closed her eyes for just one moment… and then fallen asleep. Picking up her stick, she heaved herself up to standing. How long had it been? Her legs had become cramped and protested the need to straighten, so some time then. Oh, and there was an ache in her lower back helping persuade her that she really must have dozed off whilst filling her basket. She clearly needed proper sleep, but there was too much to do, and the King was talking at last, finally, after so many years of silence, she was learning the truth of what happened so many years ago.
'I am well, Sisters.' She glanced across at the two nuns. They were obviously uncertain of what to do, their faces betraying their worry at finding their devoted mother collapsed among the plants.
'I am well, truly, worry not. I was gathering a few leaves and roots to make the King's herbal infusion; he is still weak, and I see that it does him good. I merely dozed off amongst God's creations; our Lord has been watching over me, fear not.'
'Yes, Abbess, but you should sleep. Please, allow us to take over and care for the King, only while you recover your strength.' The young nun, a wisp of a girl, reached out a freckled hand and took hold of the basket, but Morgana refused to let it go. The two looked at one another for a moment until the nun dropped her hand and lowered her eyes.
'I am sorry, Abbess; I presume too much. How might we help you?'
Morgana sighed and straightened, then glanced down into the basket, calculating for a moment what ingredients were needed and what was still missing.
'You can take this basket back and leave it outside my chambers. Also, collect camomile… and I think you will find some verbenae if you look close to the water trough on your way back… go on, go!' She passed the basket and flapped her hands at the two nuns, and they scuttled off, eager to do her bidding.
Morgana watched them go and then, gathering her robes, she sighed and walked on among the plants and flowers of the herbage towards the small broken gate that was set in the back wall. She was indeed tired and could feel every one of her forty-two years, but walking was helping to ease the cramp that had set in, and she was now feeling awake and eager to find the remaining ingredients and return to her chambers.
Nudging the gate to the side, she had to push through where the brambles had overgrown, unpicking the thorns from where they reached out and snagged at her cloak, and then she was past and could walk on up towards the hill. She knew that close to the path, further up towards the tor where the sheep grazed in the summer months, would be the small brown mushrooms that were vital for the infusion. Once combined with a little of the mandrake root, she knew they could influence and bring forth the stories from the King. As a whole, the broth would indeed soothe his parched throat, reduce his fever, and with the addition of honey, lend him strength. However, it would be the little mushrooms that finally let loose his tongue, and the mandrake would give him need to tell, to unload the burdens from his soul… and then she would know the truth of things, and he would pay for a childhood lost, a mother stolen from her and a father surely murdered in cold blood.
The pat
h meandered on and upward for some time, until high above the Abbey, she stopped for breath and gazed back to be certain she was not being observed. A cold wind tugged at her cloak, but the rain clouds were still absent, and it was now a brighter, more pleasant day. There was no sign that any of the nuns that she could see working in the gardens or walking around the Abbey far below were watching. Drawing a determined breath, she turned back to the path, and being careful of her footing on the slippiest parts, continued to climb.
Just below where one of the last clumps of old apple trees were still left upon the tor, she saw what she was looking for, small brown mushrooms growing in groups, wavering in the breeze upon long slender stems. Making a pouch in her robes ready to hold them, she crossed and began to pick. Once she had about twenty, she forced herself to standing, and then waited for a few moments as the expected wave of dizziness passed over her. It slipped slowly away, the brightness of her vision faded, and she soon felt well enough to start back. Perhaps this next infusion should be brewed just a little stronger? She thought about the story Uther had been telling. Whatever took place when the quest arrived on the Isle of Erin was surely a reason for the troubles that had flared upon their return. Stepping carefully, Morgana made her way back down the path and returned to the Abbey.
'Uther… King Uther… please, my Lord… wake.'
Uther could hear his name being called as if it was from a far distant room. It echoed through the passageways of his mind, and he grasped and reached for it, seeking to pull himself out of the dreams that had troubled him. Dreams of giants and blood, Druids and a distant land that had caused such distress and confusion for so many people.
'Uther… awake my Lord. It is a pleasant day, and I have brought you warm broth. You are still weak; the broth will lend you the strength that you need to recover.'