by C. M. Gray
They saw the stones being transported to Stanenges by the Druids or at least some thought they saw them. It was late on the fourth day after leaving Pendragon fortress, the long line of men and women, chariots, and carts trudging one after another beneath a featureless white sky. Uther was tired, riding slumped in his saddle and having ridden since daybreak, he had been dreaming and thinking, anticipating their arrival at the camp that his men would have prepared to await his arrival.
A whisper of excitement seemed to travel down the column as word was passed from warrior to warrior. Apparently some of the slingers, a group of warriors who were marching on foot at the rear of the long column, had seen the huge stones on the horizon, passing over the distant hills. The buzz of speculation and interest ran up and down the line with calls of confirmation and disbelief sounding in equal measures, it was the most interesting thing to have happened all day. Uther, sitting high upon his horse, gazed out at the hills, scanning along them for any sign of movement, but nothing caught his eye other than wet trees. He continued to watch for a few moments, eager for some glimpse of huge stones floating one after another, or more than likely pulled upon horse and cart he reasoned, because he knew Druids to be tricksters. As eager to pull the wool down over your eyes and confuse you whilst calling it magic, than show themselves to be doing things as any normal person might do. But then, he reasoned, whatever Merlyn had done to those stones to make them float was still rather magical, not to say getting them down from up on the mountain all by himself, so maybe they were flying, who was he to say that Druids couldn't make huge stones fly…
He returned his scrutiny to the horizon, but still couldn't see any sign of them. After a while, as the chatter about stones and Druids lessened around him, he returned to pondering the muddy path, the possibility of a dry pavilion for the night, and thoughts of Igraine. The worst thing about travelling at any time was the mind-numbing monotony of being on horseback for day after day. This close to the winter solstice, the boredom was made worse by the cold and rain. At least, thought Uther, I am not walking and have a comfortable living space being prepared for my arrival. He looked about at the chiefs and warriors riding around him who would also be closely cared for as soon as they arrived at camp, and then he glanced back to the tide of men and women who were walking to the rear of the column with the carts. He knew their number would be close to five thousand and provisioning for the march was a taxing task, one that he was glad could be passed to more competent men than himself. The warriors marching on foot would be setting their own camps when they arrived, finding their own areas to light fires and would erect shelters from materials carried on the carts and from what they could cut from the trees. He also knew that a large number of them would simply enter the forest to seek shelter. It made him reflect on the time when Cal, Nineve, Merlyn and he had travelled through the forest of the Wield, sleeping out amongst the trees with no cover from the rain and cold other than their cloaks and a bed of gathered moss and bracken. It wasn't a bad memory, not when compared with other events that had assaulted him from before, during and after his rise to be King. Sleeping out in the rain had been cold, and of course wet, but it was a pretty good memory of simpler times. He looked up, startled from his reverie by a rider forcing his way towards him through the flow of carts, warriors and horses. It was one of his scouts, a man of the Iceni; Uther could tell from the blue cloak and swirl of wet blue woad upon his bare chest, he held up his hand in greeting as the warrior approached. The man jumped to the ground to kneel, but Uther quickly called for him to stand.
'There is no need to lay in the mud, my friend. You have ridden hard to find me, what news do you bring of what lies ahead of us?'
The warrior rose and swung himself back up onto his horse's back before answering.
'A temporary fort has been built awaiting your arrival some short way ahead, Sire; all shall be ready for your arrival. But we also have word on both the Cornovii and the Dumnonii as you requested. Word has been sent to all their villages to gather their spears and amass both at Isca and also Dimilioc. None have been told why, save that they gather in defence of their Lord. We were told that thousands are gathering at the two fortresses, it seems that they received their calling almost half a moon ago.'
Uther nodded. Gerlois hadn't wasted any time. He must have sent his orders almost as soon as the boats had beached after their quest. He had known they would flee but delayed their departure until he was sure his warriors would all be gathered together upon his return. Uther ground his teeth and tried not to show his frustration to the warriors that were marching past them, all staring openly at their King, as he discussed matters far beyond their ken. It would seem that the Duc was more prepared than he had given him credit for, but why call his warriors to two different fortresses more than a day's march apart, was this just to cause confusion to those he knew would be pursuing him? The planning was something Uther reluctantly admired, but it also left him with a feeling of irritation, Gerlois should not be the enemy, but he was clearly preparing to confront the combined might of the British tribes. He tried to shake off the feeling and thanked the man, then he rejoined the movement of the warriors and pondered deeply. There was much to be settled, firstly at Isca, it would seem, and then possibly on to Dimilioc.
The raven flew across frost covered fields, above woodland already sleeping its winter sleep, and hovels with smoking fires, housing peasants trying to survive winter's harsh grasp. It knew where it was going; there was a path but a short distance to the side, making it easy to find its way, with a few peasants making their way between villages in the early morning light. It meandered across the countryside enjoying the freedom and sensation of flight, the wind making a soft, pleasing hush across its glistening black wings as its head turned from side to side taking in every detail of the land, all its features and especially the people it passed.
As it came to hamlets and villages both large and small it flapped its great wings to gain height, before gliding down to flit softly once more over fields and rivers, until finally, it crossed the unmarked border into Saxon lands that, to the eyes of the bird, were little different to the lands claimed by the Britons, yet it knew this to be the current boundary between the two. Then a burnt out hall confirmed it; it flew on.
Recognising the settlement that it sought, the raven alighted high in an old elm tree, its branches bare of leaves this late in the year. It gripped the branch with its claws and turned its head to peer down at the warriors gathered below standing around their small mean fire; the village guards such as they were. They were stamping their feet for warmth and blowing steam from their mouths over cold hands as they joked and chatted and bemoaned the chill in their harsh, abrupt speech. Swords, spears and axes were left piled to the side of the fire along with their shields, ready for an attack that clearly none of them expected to happen.
With a loud 'cawww' the bird swooped over their heads, barely noticed, and then down between huts towards the largest of the grouped dwellings. As the raven approached the ground it shimmered and grew, and moments later, Morgana le Fey was stooping to push past the low doorway.
She rose and drew down the cowled hood of her cloak. The occupants glanced up as the door banged shut behind her, the only announcement of her presence. They were the same group as had previously occupied the roundhouse; the two women, a small group of children and the man by the fire, the dog even now shrinking back with a soft growl. They all stared at her as she pointedly ignored them all and stepped towards the fire, to warm her hands.
'You bring news?' Octa glanced at the door, a frown set upon his face, and then stood up from where he had been crouched, sharpening a seax. He quickly sheathed it, then slipped the stone into a pouch tied at his waist. 'We had not expected you… not so soon.' She could tell he was unsettled; perhaps he had expected his men to announce her, the thought made her smile. It was good that she could ruffle the man just by appearing when he least expected it.
'The King
still dies, I become weary of tending him and listening to his lies. He is fevered, delusional, and has no recollection of truth as it indeed was, regardless of the strength of the potion that I give him, his mind has broken. I have come to summon your warriors to take him away.' She looked up and smoothed the front of her black robes before fixing him with a frowning stare that she knew would continue to unsettle him. After a moment, she said, 'You promise to make him suffer? You said that if and when I delivered him to you, that you would take him away from his people and draw out the moments of his death until it became a long, unending scream… can I hold you to your promise, Octa Hengistson? Can I pass this burden to you so that the spirit of my father can finally lay in peace?'
Octa gestured for her to take the seat by the fire, and then resumed his own, letting out a sigh as he sat down. 'We will take the King from you, of course, but you promised to deliver the son as well. We need Arthur so that the Britons have no leader. The King is the King, yes, but with the Druids help, the boy is already ruling. Some might ask what use a dying man could be to me when the whelp is already leading the pack, don't you think?'
'The dying man is still the King, and he can be taken easily, taking the son will need a little more finesse, he is forever within sight of the Druid, Merlyn; he never allows the boy to be alone.' Morgana accepted a clay bowl of steaming liquid from one of the women and smiled her thanks. The rich earthy smell of chamomile greeted her as she inhaled. Sipping it tentatively, she found it had been sweetened with honey and was delicious, but a little too hot. She lay the bowl beside her to cool and turned her attention back to Octa as he began to speak.
'We know well of Merlyn; we are told that the Druid wields the most powerful of magic, and he has a deep hatred of my people for some strange reason.' He smiled, and then his face became serious once more. 'We will come for the King, but it is for you to deliver the boy. Then both of them shall disappear. They shall never return to trouble either of us. Without them, the land will quickly fall to Saxon rule, which I assure you will benefit both of us. Bring us the boy who would be King.'
Morgana spoke calmly as if she were talking to a child. 'You must have patience. All will be done, everything completed. Firstly, you shall rid us both of the father, the pup I shall bring you when the time is right; I will not rush this unnecessarily. Your men will come to the Abbey upon the next full moon; this is in six days. I shall allow a small group to enter the Abbey and take the King. Only one guard watches over him, a woman, a tiresome creature whom I shall deal with in my own way.' She picked the bowl up and sipped her infusion, feeling the warmth of it fill her, before continuing. 'This is the way of things and how it shall be done, are we in agreement?' She waited for Octa to nod, and then glanced up towards the hole in the centre of the roof where the smoke from the fire lapped lazily around the thatched edges before being drawn out by the soft morning breeze. She placed her bowl on the floor and returned her gaze to Octa. 'Do I have your word, your blood bond, that you will come… do we need to cut thumbs to seal the oath?' Her head tilted to the side, much as the raven's had, as she waited for him to answer.
He shook his head and sat back before clearing his throat. 'There is no need for blood or oaths; we will come. For what greater prize can I ask, but the living body of the King of the Britons?'
She nodded, raised her hands, and with a crackle of energy and a flutter of robes, the raven was flapping up towards the smoke hole, the dog having found its courage, barking furiously below. She flitted through and then sat on the edge, her head once again turning to the side, beady black eye staring down into the shocked, upturned faces of the Saxons, and with one last 'cawww,' she was gone.
Chapter 19
A Conflict of Interest
The hills and woodland, the paths and lanes, every animal, man, woman, and child steamed and gave forth a rich aroma of unwashed and foul odours in the early morning light of dawn on this, a new winter's day. As it frequently had over the past ten days of their march, it had rained for much of the night making rest and sleep almost impossible. Thankfully, the clouds had finally fled before the appearance of a brilliant sunrise that lit the misty world about them with soft orange rays. The weak but welcome warmth now bathed the steaming, bedraggled column.
Uther was riding close to the front, exhausted by the journey, the rain and even more by the constant sticky mud that caked the feet of those marching, it bogged down chariots and carts, and it even made progress difficult for the horses.
The seemingly endless procession of warriors had spent the best part of each day slowly moving forward in numb resignation as they travelled towards their goal, which for most was simply the hope of a hot meal and dry place to sleep. With such a large force it was more than often difficult just to follow on, as those in front were in turn slowed by impassable puddles big enough to be called ponds and paths filled with mud. They tried to ignore the rain as it lashed down upon them in the open or dripped upon them from the trees, below which they sought shelter, as water found its way into every item of armour and clothing that they wore or carried.
The previous night they had sought rest after darkness had already fallen when it had finally been decided that they were not going to reach the next camp. Once again between planned resting places, they had been forced to make do with very little shelter and no chance of lighting fires. As the light had faded to darkness and the cold had crept in to wrap chill fingers about each and every one of them, regardless if they were warrior, Lord, or King, they had huddled beneath trees and bushes in sad little groups. Uther had spoken with Sir Ector and Merlyn, but it had been hard to find the energy to converse.
Sometime in the early light of dawn, knowing that no one had found sleep or any real rest, Uther gave the order that they would soon be leaving. Since then, they had been forcing one foot after the other in the misty gloom in the hope of reaching Gloucester some time later in the morning. It was in the settlement of Gloucester that Uther knew they could finally find rest for a few days in the well-established settlement and hill fort.
'Do you know much about where we are going, Gloucester?' Asked Uther with little enthusiasm for the answer. 'It sounds like a Roman name, what did we call it before the Romans, do you know?'
Merlyn looked up from his reverie and smiled, happy at the opportunity to converse.
'Yes, Uther. I know it well. I knew it before the Romans were here… but that is another story. Before the Romans there was a settlement and an ancient fortress, even older than me, called Kingsholm; had a good sized settlement around it. When the Romans arrived, they subjugated the local tribes and renamed it Gloucester. Ignored the hill fort and built their own strange villas and buildings on the lower slopes as the fortress on the higher ground fell into decay. Once the Romans left, the fortress was reclaimed by the local tribesmen again and today it endures once more.'
'So a King once lived here?'
'Most probably, sometime in the mists of the past, but the Roman name Gloucester seems to have taken a good hold, so unless you want to live here let's just keep calling it Gloucester. I doubt the locals would wish to have their town's name revert to Kingsholm anyway.'
'That's fine by me, I just hope it is close and ready to receive us,' said Uther as he pulled the hood of his cloak, lower.
'I know that Sir Ector sent riders ahead to warn of our approach several days ago. I am sure so that all necessary preparations have been made to house and feed our warriors, even if the weather has not been our friend and delayed us.'
'It is difficult, but we will endure and become the greater for it,' said Uther. 'There are many sound reasons that war is fought in every season other than in winter. We should all be sitting out the winter, warm and dry.' He dammed Gerlois for the tenth time that morning as he realised that the sun was barely over the treeline. Lately, he had spent far too much time damning the man he sighed; oh, but damn the man indeed, for at least one final time this morning. He really should be back enjoying the comfort
s of Pendragon fortress, warming his feet by the fire, thinking of a boar hunt or planning what actions to take against the Saxons come the Spring thaw, not splashing about in mud, wet through to the skin in anticipation of bringing the tribes together for war.
Thankfully, for the remainder of the day, the weather remained fair and the warrior's spirits seemed to lift as they warmed from marching and their clothing and leather armour dried.
By midday, the path they were travelling merged with a Roman road. Uther's horse clattered up onto the well-packed gravel surface and he noticed that while some of the warriors walked on the mud-free stone surface, others still chose to struggle along the muddy path at its side. 'Lest they lose contact with the spirits of the earth,' he knew. He remembered his own misgivings when he had first encountered the strange flat surface of stones many, many years ago and his own belief that if he trod upon its surface for too long, he would lose contact with the spirits of the land and his ancestors that watched over him… but it did make for faster easier going.
They passed a milestone with carved lettering indicating that the fortified settlement of Gloucester was just five Roman miles distant. Uther looked at the marching men in front of him and tried to picture the distance and how long they still needed to travel before he might change his clothing, eat a meal, and perhaps sleep before dealing with the boundless questions and requests that would be waiting for him. One Roman mile was a thousand paces, with two steps making a measured pace… he watched the closest marching warrior and counted the steps as he walked… after a few moments, he concluded that it would be a short day of travel before they arrived, which cheered him greatly.
'You appear pleased, King Uther,' said Sir Ector after noticing Uther smiling. 'There are few things to smile about on a march such as this, would you care to share what amuses you?'