Camulod Chronicles Book 7 - Uther

by Whyte, Jack

  Hand in hand with that kind of thing, indications of incompetence and mismanagement among his own forces began to come to his notice. In the space of a single month, he received four separate reports of inaccurate information being provided to troop commanders and then acted upon without any attempt to obtain verification, resulting in time and effort wasted and men endangered without valid cause. On the worst of those occasions, a ten-man troop had been dispatched to scout a pathway through a dense growth of forest in the northernmost part of Cornwall, assured by their chief scout that the terrain between their departure point and the edge of the forest was wide open and free of hostile forces. It was not, on either count. Reconstructing the scene afterward, the troop commander had found clear indications that the troop had been ambushed by a party of not less than a hundred men who had left ample evidence to establish beyond doubt that they had been living openly and for some time in caverns among a jumble of large rocks close by the road the troopers used. All ten troopers had been killed and their horses stolen.

  Incompetence and mismanagement, deplorable though they may be, are remediable, and Uther made it his prime urgency to put a stop to it. The remedy involved close scrutiny of several of his individual commanders, the execution of his chief scout, who was proved to have lied in order to cover his own laziness, and two swift demotions of intermediate commanders to the ranks, where they fared badly at the hands of their former subordinates. That not only clipped the pinions of the officers involved, it also served notice to everyone that high rank, forfeited, entailed a long, hard fall.

  Against what most people called sheer misfortune and plain bad luck, however, Uther, like everyone else, was impotent: a scouting troop of twelve mounted men, caught unexpectedly in a narrow valley by a large band of Lot's mercenaries who ought not to have been there, broke and ran down the valley to the eastward in the reasonable hope that their horses' speed would carry them to safety. Instead, it led them into a dry, brush-choked ravine in which they all died when the enemy fired the brush with burning arrows. In another incident, an entire squadron of cavalry, thirty-six strong and operating independently of other support, found itself wiped out when one of the horses came down with some unknown kind of fever and infected all the others. The pestilence spread through the horse lines in the space of two days, and twenty-eight of a total of fifty horses died. The remaining twenty-two animals had all shown symptoms of the illness but had recovered by the end of the fifth day. The squadron commander, a young man called Rollo who had been born and raised around the stables of Camulod, had not dared assume the risk of taking potentially lethal animals back into the healthy herds remaining in Uther's base camp. Upon his own initiative, he ordered that every one of the surviving animals be slaughtered, and he and his men walked back twenty-three miles to rejoin the army, carrying their saddles and equipment.

  It gradually became apparent to Uther and to those around him who enjoyed his confidence that something fundamental had changed within his army during the course of the year's campaigning. Had anyone chosen to consider such things prior to the start of that campaign, they might have said that Uther's was a lucky army; everyone had taken that for granted. During the latter part of that summer, however, that perception changed radically, and "Uther's Luck," as it came to be known, was regularly talked about around his army's campfires. The rate at which his best intentions and most careful planning went wrong soon began to generate a plainly noticeable kind of superstitious awe among his followers, and Uther himself eventually reached the stage where he could not blame his people for what they were thinking. He could not charge them openly with disloyalty, either, for the truth was that he, too, suspected some malign, supernatural intervention in his affairs.

  From that first night with Ygraine, it seemed to him later, nothing that he planned had ever come to full fruition in quite the way he had envisioned, and he convinced himself eventually that lying with Ygraine had been the very worst thing he could have done. He was incapable of forgetting that Ygraine was sister to Deirdre, who had been Merlyn's wife and was now dead, and that before all that, Deirdre had been Cassandra. Forgetting the pleasure of their coupling, he could not banish the shame of having used his captive for his own desires, in contradiction of everything he had been taught about honourable conduct, acting in the basest possible way, giving full rein to the darkness in him. He felt sure he was being punished for this transgression with the falseness of those around him. And deep in his soul, it sometimes rankled when he gave way to his despair and remembered how he had renounced all his boyhood ties to Cambria—even to being Pendragon—because of his loyalty to Merlyn and to Camulod. A sacrifice that big. made in the name of loyalty, he told himself on the few occasions when he allowed himself to wallow in self-pity, should protect anyone against disloyalty in others . . .

  Most of the time, however, Uther would have nothing to do with such thoughts. He had little patience for those who were forever looking back over their shoulders. Only at night would the shadows overtake him, subjecting him to superstitious fears and reminding him of the darkness he acknowledged in himself. It was hardly surprising, therefore, that he seldom permitted himself to dwell on such things, forcing himself instead to remain in the bright light of the approval of his people.

  Chapter THIRTY-ONE

  In the autumn of the year, towards the end of the campaigning season, an unknown warrior on a tall red horse rode into Uther's camp one evening and demanded to speak with King Uther Pendragon. He was detained but not disarmed, while Nemo, who was decurion of the guard that night, set out to find Uther. But Uther had seen the man arrive and had already come himself to find out who would dare to ride so boldly into his camp alone and on such a magnificent mount.

  The King strode quickly towards the group clustered about the newcomer, and the stranger began to step forward to meet him, only to be seized and forced to his knees by the zealous guards. Uther barked an order, bidding them step away and allow the stranger to rise. The man then rose to his feet, squaring his shoulders and holding his head high, glaring around defiantly at his captors.

  Uther walked right by him, ignoring him completely, and went to examine his horse, instead. He inspected the animal's teeth and ran his hand expertly over its withers, then turned to its master.

  "A fine horse. Unusual for us to see horseflesh as good as our own in this part of the world. I'm Uther Pendragon. Who are you?"

  Instead of answering, the stranger reached out and unfolded his left hand, palm upward, revealing Uther's own ring, worn facing inward, on his little finger. The King gazed at it in silence for a count of several heartbeats, his lips pursed, then turned to lay a hand on the arm of one of the guards.

  "Marek, go you to the commissary if you will, and bring some cups and a jug of ale to my tent. . . a large jug, I think. Our friend here looks thirsty." He turned back to the newcomer and inclined his head. "Come with me. Your horse will be looked after while we talk." He glanced at Nemo, who stood glowering at the stranger. "See to it. Nemo, will you?" Then he strode away towards his tent without a backward glance, and the visitor walked close behind him, leaving the guards looking at each other in mute wonder, unable to decipher what had just happened.

  Darkness had already begun to fall, and lamps and smoky, pitch-dipped torches were being lit everywhere. In the King's Tent, they found a trooper busily lighting the high, tallow candles that augmented Uther's dim, smoky campaign lamps. Uther waved the man to a chair and then leaned with his buttocks against the single table, his arms folded across his chest, waiting until the trooper had left the tent.

  As soon as they were alone, he spoke. "The Lady Ygraine is well, I hope?"

  "Aye, she is. And nearby, too. She bade me bring you to her, if you can make the time to visit her."

  Uther was staring at the stranger, assessing him as he had been doing since first he set eyes on him. The man was no ordinary warrior, nor was he a servant of any kind. Quite apart from the magnificent horse he
rode, his speech and his clothing proclaimed him high-born to some degree.

  "Who are you?"

  "My name is Lagan. They call me Lagan Longhead."

  The King smiled. "Of course, Herliss's son. I see the resemblance now. Is your father well? I have heard nothing of him since I saw him last."

  Lagan inclined his head solemnly. "He is well and safely back in Tir Gwyn where he belongs. I am grateful to you for releasing him and for the way in which you did it. You saved his life, and perhaps my own and those of my wife and son. My entire clan is in your debt."

  Uther smiled and shook his head. "No need for that, Lagan Longhead. I did what I did for my own benefit, believe me. I needed allies in the war against Lot, and your father and the Queen needed someone who could help them win back some portion of their lives. We all benefited equally."

  He was interrupted by the arrival of the trooper Marek, bearing a jug of ale and two mugs. Uther took them from him and thanked the man, then poured. Lagan raised his mug immediately and drank down half of the contents in a single long swallow. Uther watched him, smiling faintly, then picked up the jug and refilled Lagan's before sipping his own. He made no move to sit in the other chair, content instead to remain lounging against the edge of the table, looking down at his seated guest.

  "I thought you had the look of a thirsty man about you. How far from here is the Queen?"

  Lagan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and belched quietly, showing no awareness that Uther was looking down on him. "A three-hour ride—four in the dark, but there's a harvest moon tonight. She is in the Crag Fort, one of my father's smaller strongholds, the smallest of them, in fact, but warm and habitable. If you are able, we can leave immediately, for the Queen will be impatient. Tomorrow, she must be back in Tir Gwyn where her husband, our greatly beloved King, will join her. And while Lot is in Tir Gwyn during the next few days, less than a day's journey from where the Queen will lie tonight, my father hopes that you will burn the Crag Fort."

  Uther frowned. "And why would I do that? Is your father so wealthy that he can afford to lose a castle for a gesture?"

  "He may be. More to the point, however, he can't afford not to. Lot is beginning to wonder why so few of my father's holdings have been attacked this year."

  "So few? You mean some of them have been attacked?"

  "Aye, two."

  "I did not know that."

  "Aye, and for that we thank the gods. When every other castle in the land is being attacked, it becomes very noteworthy when those belonging to one single, powerful man sit safe and unthreatened. You attacked two of my father's castles recently, within a month of each other, and one of them you mauled quite badly, stealing all its stored grain and burning the empty granaries. That was just enough, and beautifully timed, to lull Lot's suspicions. Now another month has elapsed, and the complete destruction and loss of a third castle belonging to the noble Herliss should tip the balance—to Lot's eyes at least—back in the direction of uneasy trust."

  "Hmm." Uther was bracing himself with one straight leg, holding his mug in one hand and drumming on the rim of it with the nails of his other hand, his head tilted slightly as though he listened to the rhythm of his fingers. Finally he jerked his head in a tight little nod. "So be it. If you will wait here for me, I have some people to talk to and some minor arrangements to put in place to cover my absence. I'll instruct my grooms to have your horse brushed down and prepared for a return journey, and I'll rejoin you here as quickly as I can. We'll leave immediately after that. Should I bring an escort of some kind?"

  "Not unless you absolutely want to draw attention to yourself. But if you feel you must have an escort, then bring one."

  Uther looked the other man straight in the eye, remembering what he had been told about him years earlier. The two of them were close in age. Lagan perhaps a couple of years older, and if his long-time friend the Lady Mairidh were to be believed, they were close in temperament as well. Lagan stared right back at him, one eyebrow slightly quirked, almost but not quite arrogant, and certainly not lacking in self-assurance.

  Uther grinned. "No, I don't think so. No escort. Wait, I won't be long."

  He turned quickly to leave, but before he could take a step, the other man stopped him with a word, bidding him wait. Uther turned back and looked at him curiously.

  "What? What is it?"

  Lagan looked him up and down and back again, head to foot, then motioned with his hand. "Appearances," he said quietly. "You might as well bring the escort if you're going to wear that."

  "Wear what?"

  "King Uther Pendragon's armour. I recognized you as soon as I saw you coming—bright-red and gold cloak, gold dragon, bronze armour with red enamelling, crimson horsehair crest on the helmet. It's hardly unobtrusive, is it? I simply thought you might want to bring a trumpeter with you, too, so that we can alert anyone who doesn't see you at first glance . . ."

  Uther stood glaring at the man's effrontery, and then his face broke into a slow grin and he nodded. "You do have a point. Let me see what else I can find to wear. There are not too many men my size among our forces but there are a few. Wait for me. I'll be back as quickly as may be."

  Lagan sat still for a moment, then looked down into his mug and drank deeply again before rising and moving to help himself from the jug. Armed with another brimming mug, he went back and sat in the chair, placed the mug carefully on the ground beside him and then stretched his muscles hugely, arms, back and legs, groaning softly with the pleasure of it.

  When Uther returned some time later, dressed now in a plain black woollen cloak with a hood and a mixture of nondescript pieces of armour, he found his visitor asleep with his chin on his breast, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his body slouched deeply in the chair. The mug on the ground beside him was still full.

  Uther learned more about Gulrhys Lot that night than he had previously been able to accumulate over a lifetime. Thinking back on it later, he would have no clear idea when during their journey the tenor of their talk had changed, but eventually everything Lagan Longhead had held lightly restrained inside him concerning Lot— all the anger, frustration, disillusioned bitterness and pain—hail poured out of him in some kind of cleansing catharsis.

  Within the first few moments of their beginning to speak to each other once they were free of the camp, Uther felt a kind of bond between himself and Lagan, undefined and accepted without question or comment, that tacitly permitted them to speak openly without fear. It was a phenomenon that Uther had never encountered before, because it was not in his nature either to be garrulous among friends or to confide easily in strangers, but he merely accepted it and shrugged his shoulders mentally, while Lagan gave him no sign that he was even aware of anything unusual.

  Uther started talking about Merlyn, and somehow the topic drifted naturally to his loyalty to his cousin, and then to Camulod and to his own Dragons. Always, however, it swung back to Merlyn, and loyalty and, at length, to betrayal by disbelief, with Uther even broaching the subject of his own doubts and uncertainties. And before long Lagan Longhead began laying bare his own soul in return, talking about his own experiences with loyalty and betrayal, and about his decades-long friendship with Gulrhys Lot.

  "Gods, man!" Uther interrupted. "You sound as though you think you lost something of value!"

  "I did lose something of value." Lagan glanced sideways and saw the disbelief on Uther's face, and he grinned and shook his head. "But we all see value differently at different times. You never knew Lot as I once did. He has a marvellous sense of the ridiculous, and we have had some wonderful times together, he and I. . . happy times, laughing ourselves sick, weeping tears of mirth until we fell on the floor clutching our ribs."

  "Gulrhys Lot? Are you talking about Lot of Cornwall? You can't mean that."

  "Oh yes I can, and why not? I stand against him now, but I was his true and devoted friend for nigh on twenty years, and that was not, I promise you, because he was
a miserable, treacherous, inhumane bully. He could be all of those things and more when he wished to be, but he never was to me. Never. I never saw that side of him.

  "I know people thought me foolish and blind and stupid—even Lydda, my own wife, thought so. She tried to warn me about it many times, but of course, I never listened. I was a man and she merely a woman, so I tried to be patient with her foolishness, told her that she was wrong. Well, she wasn't, and I was the one who proved to be the fool."

  He stopped and rode without speaking for a while, and Uther held his peace, knowing that he had not finished.

  "You would like him, Uther. You would like him mightily, whether you choose to believe me or not. You would respond to him instantly and enjoy him thoroughly—until you saw through and beyond the living mask he had put on for his dealings with you. He wears a different mask for everyone. Even for me. And he deluded me so well, so damned completely, that for most of my life I would not believe he wore a mask at all, no matter who told me otherwise."

  Uther turned himself in the saddle to face Lagan. "How could he be that way with you for so long and not thus with everyone else? And how could you not see beyond it?"

  "How indeed?" Lagan screwed up his face and nodded his head, affirming his own thoughts on the question. "When he took my wife and son as hostages against my good behaviour, he lost me forever, but he and I had been close friends as children, and we remained close throughout our growing up. The Lot I loved was the Lot of our boyhood."

  Uther grunted his disgust. "I met him when he was a boy, and he was a loathsome pig. I tried to kill him."

  "I know, Ygraine told me about that. I remember how sick he was when he came home that year. He was shut up for weeks before they'd let me see him, and I never did find out what really happened. But Lot was fourteen by then, at least fourteen. When I speak of our boyhood, I mean the days when we were children, seven, eight, nine and ten years old . . . the days when we were yet innocent of blood, or adulthood, or sexual corruption. Boyhood. Uther—you must remember boyhood? Surely you had one too?"