'How many are with you?' The blue-daubed face loomed so close to Meryn that
the fetid smell of his breath almost overpowered the pungent smell coming from
the rest of him. The Pict worked the gag loose and Meryn moved his jaw around,
wincing at the pain.
'You will tell me now… or I cut the girl.' The Pict smiled horribly, showing
black broken teeth, and then dragged Nineve over by her hair. Drawing a stained
knife from the folds of his cloak, he pulled her head back and pressed the uneven
blade to her thin white throat. He stared down at Meryn, waiting for an answer
as the blade slowly pressed harder, quickly drawing a crimson bead of blood.
With eyes squeezed shut, Nineve wept silently around her gag.
'There are two others,' blurted Meryn… just boys, they're… '
'How many years do they have?' growled the Pict. The knife relaxed against
Nineve's throat but he didn't let go of her hair.
'They're lads, just lads,' continued Meryn. 'Fourteen, fifteen summers; they're
no more than that.' He noticed the calculating look the Pict gave before he
barked something at one of the others.
'We were to meet a force from the Trinovante.' Meryn's eyes flicked across
to the path in an attempt to strengthen the lie, but when he looked back, he saw
the Pict cared little for anyone that might be coming to their rescue. Throwing
Nineve to the side, the Pict replaced Meryn's gag and stood up, then turned to his
two companions. There was a short conversation, and then he disappeared into
the trees with one of the others, leaving only one Pict as their reluctant guard.
Meryn studied the Pict warrior as he moved restlessly past him. The way he
paced reminded Meryn of a dangerous dog tied to a post, desperate to be cut
loose. Every now and then, he would stop and cast a malevolent glare at his two
captives, and then growl something under his breath. Meryn did his best to
ignore him.
Whenever he thought the Pict wasn't looking, Meryn struggled, straining
against his bonds, but try as he might he still couldn't get loose. Despair
threatened to overwhelm him as he realised how helpless their situation had
become. They obviously wanted the boys and Nineve, he shuddered to think
what for, but him, they would no doubt kill. He choked down the rising feeling
of fear and determined for Nineve's sake, if nothing else, not to lose control.
Drawing in a deep breath, he gathered his reserves and centred his energies one
more time, seeking the calm he knew would be necessary if there was to be an
opportunity for escape.
The misty morning had turned into a beautiful afternoon, yet until then
Meryn had been unaware of little past his immediate surroundings. Once he felt
his body let go of the fear, he closed his eyes and tried to direct his concentration
onto the cool breeze that occasionally played across his face, and then moved to
the flicker of warm sunlight filtering down through the canopy of leaves. As he
allowed tense tired muscles to relax, he accepted the burning pain from his
chaffed wrists, and set it aside into a corner of his mind where it could no longer
distract him. Sitting up with a straight back, he pushed against the tree for
support and breathed in deeply through his nose, and then slowly out through his
mouth, forcing the breath around the gag. His awareness extended as he tried to
locate the Picts, the last having sprinted off a few moments before, leaving them
alone with just the horses for company. After a moment, he decided that they
were indeed unguarded, and that he could sense no other presence than Nineve
as she sat close beside him.
However, before he had a chance to do anything more, something brushed
against his arm and moved behind him. He opened his eyes and squinted back,
trying to see what was happening. Someone shoved him forward, and the rough
rope binding his hands began to vibrate and, after a moment, parted. The
momentary relief of freedom this brought was short-lived as his circulation
returned and his hands exploded in a throbbing agony of pain. He let out an
involuntary moan.
'Shhhh.' The warning came as he began massaging his wrists. Nineve moved
in front of him and began sawing at the rope round his feet with a sharp stone.
As she cut, she glanced about anxiously, obviously worried that the Picts would
return before she was finished. 'I must go,' she whispered. 'Please tell Calvador
not to worry about me. Tell him I'll see him soon.' The rope parted and for a
moment, she gazed up into his eyes. 'Thank you, Meryn.'
'We're both going to get out of here, Nineve,' hissed Meryn once he had
wrenched the gag down from his mouth. 'How did you get free?' There was no
answer. 'Nineve… Nineve?' He glanced about, then drawing his legs up, rubbed
at them, trying to bring back some feeling to the cramped muscles. He stopped
and listened for movement, and cast about again, but she had gone. There was no
sign or sound of the girl anywhere. 'Nineve?' Seeing the rope that had bound her
lying beside him, he picked it up and frowned. His rope lay ragged and frayed,
not like this one. The ends of this one were cut cleanly, as if by a sharp knife; but
she couldn't have had a knife, could she? Surely the Picts would have found it if
she had? Anyway, if she had, why then use a stone to cut his? Someone else had
cut her free.
Behind him, the sound of running feet came from further down the path.
Meryn drew back behind the tree as one of the Picts came into view, breathing
hard. The Pict drew up short as he realised the two captives were no longer tied
to the tree, and then Meryn stepped out and struck him a sharp blow to the back
of the head.
Dropping the branch, Meryn stooped down and retrieved the fallen man's
sword, and after a further search of the campsite, was rewarded with his own
bow. He watched as the Picts had examined it before tossing it aside. It was
longer than their short bows and needed more effort to draw, something for
which the Picts obviously had little appreciation. Grabbing a water-skin and a
food bag from one of the horses, Meryn set off through the trees, scouring the
ground for some sign to indicate the direction Nineve had taken.
After circling the camp twice, and finding nothing, he turned south, cutting
from left to right across the trail, looking for any small track or sign. The more
he searched, the more he became frustrated, all he found were animal tracks, and
that puzzled him.
Later, as the light in the forest began to fade, his thoughts turned to spending
a night alone without his charges and, not for the first time, began regretting
sending the two boys off. There was no telling how far they might have gone,
and now that Nineve had vanished, he knew he had failed completely. In the
dark cold of the forest, Meryn laid his head down close to the main forest path,
and began to pray for help from the spirits.
In the early hours of the morning, he awoke with a sudden start from a deep
but troubled sleep, and spent a few moments of confusion as his senses screamed
that there was movement close by. Rolling over, he saw the light of a half moon
shining between the trees, illuminating the path in its silvery light, and watched,
fearing to draw breath, as a tall shadowy figure strode past, trailed by two Pict
warriors. One of the Picts was cradling his arm as if wounded, while the other
carried himself with an air of dejection. They gave the impression that they had
narrowly survived some violent encounter. It was hard to make much of the man
at the front. His attitude was confident, almost arrogant, and he was walking
without regard for his two companions as they dogged his steps. Meryn tried to
focus. The light was deceiving, casting the man as a shadow without features, as
a creature of the night. He shivered and dismissed the imaginings of a tired mind
as the figures passed from sight.
Laying back down, his thoughts returned to Nineve and the boys. The girl's
disappearance was a mystery that troubled him greatly; and the spirits alone
knew where Usher and Cal had gone. Sleep would be a long time returning now
that he was awake, and tomorrow was set to be another long day.
* * *
The smell of blood filled his nostrils, tangy and sharp. Saliva flowed
unbidden, running down his tongue as it lolled over sharp teeth, there was a
strong feeling of contentment. Then his head came up and his jaws snapped shut,
sounds, close by amongst the trees. Scanning the darkness, he watched a rabbit
hop out from the shadows, then turn as soon as it saw him and scamper away in
fear of its life. Relaxing once more, he sniffed at the air, enjoying the myriad of
scents that it carried and the knowledge of the forest it imparted to him. With a
full belly, he had little interest in chasing rabbits, better to simply move on and
rejoin the pack. A howl drifted through the forest and a moment later, another
answered its cry, this one even closer. Lifting his head, Cal echoed the call of his
clan and howled into the night.
'Cal!' Something was shaking him, pulling him away.
'No! Let me stay!' Opening his eyes, Cal saw Usher leaning over him with a
frown of concern. 'Oh, leave me alone, Usher,' he mumbled, 'I was sleeping.'
'No, you were howling, like a wolf!' Usher grinned down at him. 'Are you all
right?' Cal nodded, as sleep began to reclaim him and his eyes closed once more.
'Is your friend well?' Usher stood and saw Ambrosius silhouetted in the
doorway holding back the stiff goatskin that served as a door.
'Just an evil dream, I think,' said Usher, leaving Cal's side. Passing through
the door, he rejoined Ambrosius and his two companions.
'It's no wonder his dreams are filled with evil, brother. You've both had your
share of troubles lately. The Saxons have been searching for you everywhere.
They've tried to kill me on two separate occasions, which is understandable, but
you? You, we thought were well hidden. I still don't know how they knew where
to look, but they searched for you and for some reason, a young girl. Every
village across the lands of the Iceni has been either searched or destroyed by
Saxon and Pict war parties trying to find you.' He clapped Usher on the shoulder.
'But you evaded them like a true brother of mine. We are our father's sons.'
Usher nodded at the man calling him brother; it still didn't seem right, but
then something in him said that everything Ambrosius had told him was indeed
true. It felt strange. The thought that the people he had known as his mother and
father, the parents he had seen lying dead in the smoking embers of their hut,
were not really his parents. He had loved them, and he knew they had loved him,
he keenly felt the loss of them, but he instinctively knew, now it had been
explained, that they had merely been kind enough to take him in when asked. He
watched as Ambrosius returned to his two companions. They continued their
discussion while he resumed his study of the three men, three very Romanlooking men, who claimed to be Britons. He supposed if the armour was gone,
and they wore proper clothes, but why?
'Why are you dressed like Romans?'
Ambrosius broke his concentration on the map the three were studying, and
smiled at Usher.
'I told you. I've lived with the Romans since our father was killed and I was
taken into hiding.'
Usher shook his head, his face set in a frown. 'But if I am your brother, why
didn't I go with you?'
Ambrosius sighed. 'I do not rightly know, Uther. Remember, I had only eight
summers at the time and had little to say in the matter. I've asked that same
question many times over the years, but no one could provide me with an
answer. I came to believe it was done so that if I were found and killed by our
enemies, then our people would still have a true king, you! For whatever the
reason, when our father was killed, the druids took you away and hid you here
amongst the Iceni, while I was taken into the Roman Empire where the Romans
schooled me and taught me their ways. However, I always knew that one day I
would return to take up my birthright in Britain and become king, and that we
brothers would be reunited. It was something I grew up being sure of, and now,
Uther, its happening.'
'That's the other thing; you keep calling me Uther, but my name is Usher.'
Ambrosius shrugged. 'Your name is Uther. Maybe the family that took you
in changed your name to help hide you; I don't know what they were told. But
your name is Uther, and you should try to get used to that.'
Looking up into the kindly face of his older brother, Usher… or Uther, didn't
know what to think. Oo-ther. He repeated the name to himself a few times,
rolling it over his tongue; it would take some getting used to, if that was what he
had to do. 'So how would you have found me if…'
'If we hadn't camped out in a remote thicket of trees for days in the hope a
druid's dream might prove true? I cannot honestly say.' Ambrosius shrugged and
glanced across to his companions who were obviously entertained by the
exchange.
'It was a druid's dream? I thought you said before that you had dreamt of
meeting with me yourself.'
'Oh, it was I that dreamt it, but I was visiting a druid's well, which makes it a
druid's dream. Uther, I think you should join your friend and sleep. There'll be
plenty of time for questions and talk later. We have a long ride ahead of us
tomorrow and will be setting off at first light. Tirius, Marcus and I still have
much to discuss before we are able to rest. When we rejoin my men in a few
days, we will begin our preparations to march on Vortigern, and we still have
that battle to plan.'
Standing up, Uther nodded to the three men and retired to the sleeping area
where he lay down and listened to the low murmur of voices, and occasional
whimpers of Cal as he slept. There was so much to take in. As if life hadn't been
hard enough before, now he had to contend with being someone completely
different. I'm a stranger to myself, he thought as he lay listening to the sounds of
the night. His mind was still full of questions seeking answers and it took some
time, but slowly he drifted into a troubled sleep.
The next few days were to prove hard in many ways. The band Ambrosius
travelled with, which was about forty strong, were seasoned warriors and used to
long periods in the saddle. Uther, and especially Cal, were not used to the long
hours, punishing pace, or brief overnight stops in cold wet camps. When the
journey finally ended, all either wanted to do was sleep in a dry bed and never sit
on a horse again.
'I told you horses were a terrible way to travel,' moaned Cal, as he rubbed
foul smelling paste onto the muscles of his aching bottom. Uther, who had
already applied the salve, couldn't help but snigger as Cal waddled to his
sleeping furs and fell face down, moaning in agony.
'I thought you were starting to like that black horse back at the villa. After all
your moaning, you didn't want to leave him. These horses are no different.'
Cal opened an eye and fixed his gaze upon Uther in a serious frown. 'He had
heart, that horse. His leg was broken but he still took us away from that Saxon.'
'Horsa.'
'Yes, Horsa. I think the horse just wanted to be as far away from that evil
bastard as he could, I don't blame him either, but he carried us with him and that
took a huge heart. I felt bad at just leaving him.' Cal closed his eyes and winced
as he tried to change position. 'Truth is, I still don't want to get back on a horse
ever again, or at least not for a long, long time.
More warriors joined them over the following weeks as the winter weather
changed for the worse. Days of rain with scarcely a break were followed by
storms that drove snow and ice into the makeshift shelters of the camp. It
delayed the confrontation with Vortigern, but it also allowed them to become an
organised fighting force. The will of the tribes to reclaim their land and beat
back the Saxon invaders now combined with the Roman training introduced by
their king. Ambrosius and his men brought with them the knowledge and ability
to house, train, and feed the groups that came in from the various tribes when
they heard there was finally an alternative to the rule of Vortigern.
* * *
'Uther? The storyteller is now Uther of legend, but, how can that be?'
'Be still!' Cal rose to his feet and searched the faces surrounding his old
friend. 'Allow this story to be told. That you're here is a privilege. You are
witnessing your history being revealed, and will show some respect.' The sudden
light in his eyes calmed as he gazed down at the ashen features of his friend, and
then turned to the innkeeper. 'Do you have a hot broth? Our storyteller is in need
of something to give him a little strength.' The innkeeper nodded and went to
fetch it himself.
'I… I'm sorry fer the interruption, storyteller. I meant no harm.' The man was
a ruddy-faced farmer and appeared to be regretting his outburst. Several of his
neighbours muttered about how inappropriate it was, and that it was only a story,
but a fine story at that. At least it was if only there were no more comments from
the likes of him.
'The storyteller can be whoever he wishes to be,' said the farmer's wife,
slapping her hand against his large stomach. He groaned and edged back.
'Please, storyteller, go on. There won't be no more interruptions from him.' She
glowered at her husband, and then settled herself, smoothing her skirts.
'You're doing fine, old friend.' Cal sat back as the innkeeper set a broth
beside the leather chair then passed a second to Cal who took it with a smile of
thanks. 'It was a long time ago. Your memories have been hidden for so long that
when they return…' he left the statement unfinished.
'My name is Uther. I remember it so well, but why had I forgotten for so
long … and how long has it been?' He sipped at the broth. 'This is so unsettling. I
want to stop, but then don't feel I can.' He cast about the smoky room and
fumbled for his pipe and tobacco. Taking in the rows of expectant faces, he
shook his head then stopped and gazed questioningly at his pipe. 'And how
then…'
'Do you remember what happened to Meryn? He told us about escaping
from the Picts and how he searched for Nineve,' broke in Cal. 'Do you remember
what he had to go through before we eventually met again?'
Uther nodded. 'I remember. He was carrying a huge burden of guilt through
the Weald with him. He thought we were all dead and was blaming himself for
everything. There was something strange about their escape…'