Uther stared out from the crest of the hill and wondered again, how has my life
come to this? Below him, at the foot of what was now commonly known as
Pendragon Hill, a town of sturdy dwellings continued to grow daily, with
merchants greeting traders as they brought in livestock and supplies to
accommodate the ever-expanding populace. Warriors from all the tribes
continued to arrive, answering their new king's call to fight for their land against
the Saxon invaders and become a nation of Britons. Uther gazed at the
construction going on that covered the three smaller hills before him. The main
group of buildings were in the valley beside the banks of the small river and the
busy road that ran alongside it.
There were several training areas, with warriors practising their weapons of
choice, improving their skills under the supervision of the Roman-trained
fighters that had arrived with Ambrosius. It was those trainers, with their
knowledge of battle tactics, who had helped win the battle at Mount Badon. The
memory of that awful day filled Uther's mind, as it did all too often. For a few
moments, he returned to the battle, hearing the awful screams and cries of pain
as if he were there once more, riding upon the chariot in the midst of a sea of
screaming humanity. The awful ugly emotions of hatred, anguish and fear,
surrounding him, carrying him away…
'Sire… we are ready for your inspection.'
Startled from his reverie Uther shuddered and turned to see Berin clutching a
roll of parchment to his chest, smiling at him nervously. Berin was a thin,
haggard little man, his eyes pinched and underlined with dark smudges from
reading and writing reports by candlelight for too many years. He claimed that
Christian monks raised him, and that he had spent his first twenty years in their
service. However, after an introduction from Merlyn, he had now firmly attached
himself to the service of Uther and become his much-welcomed shadow,
organising the camp and the construction of the fortress, which was growing
slowly behind him.
'Yes, Berin, I'm sorry for keeping you waiting.' Uther noticed Berin blush
and glance over at Merlyn. The old druid was standing not far away, in the shade
of a tall oak, quietly observing the exchange, smiling at their obvious
discomfort. A king never apologises, the memory of Merlyn's words came to
Uther unbidden, and he had to stop himself from apologising again. Instead, he
walked to the edge of the large hole being excavated from the top of the hill, and
peered down at the men below toiling in the dirt and mud. He watched as a
worker dropped down a ladder into a deeper section in the corner; the diggers of
this part were out of sight, using ropes that led down into darkness to bring up
full leather buckets that slopped their slimy contents back on those working
underneath.
'As you can see, the well progresses, and with your approval we can begin
construction of the walls.' Berin, who had come up beside him, pointed to where
a group of men were trimming heavy tree trunks a short way off. Uther took it all
in while Berin fidgeted, moving from one foot to the other as he awaited some
sign from Uther that he was happy with how things were progressing with the
basic layout of the building.
'Everything looks fine, Berin. You and your men are working faster than we
expected. When do you think it will all be completed?' He glanced across at
Merlyn to see if he had said the right things and the druid offered a slight nod as
Berin beamed.
'Thank you, Sire. We will be ready before the solstice.' He bowed and moved
off towards the group of workers trimming branches from the tree trunks and
started talking and pointing towards the hole.
Berin departed allowing Merlyn to stride over and join Uther. 'Come, we
have a battle to plan.' Leading Uther by the arm, he guided the young king away.
They made their way down the hill, passing more workers digging huge
ditches, while others piled the excavated earth into defensive mounds that would
further hinder any would-be attackers to Uther's fortress. Picking their way
through the confusion, they headed towards the largest of the roundhouses,
known as the great hall, where the chiefs and reeves had gathered. Uther began
to feel the familiar fluttering of fear in his stomach as he thought about
addressing the assembled council. Reaching to his side, he gripped the twisted
wire hilt of Excalibur, the cool touch beneath his fingers lending him strength as
he ducked down and pushed through the skins hanging across the low doorway.
He stood behind the looming shadows of large warriors, all facing away
from him towards the centre of the great hall. It took a few moments for his eyes
to adjust to the dim smoky atmosphere, with its heady aroma of burning pine
resin, and was thankful that he wasn't immediately recognised. Through the
gloom above his head, he could just make out the intricate carvings on the huge
oak beams; deer, bear, boar, and of course wolf, surrounded by twisting,
beautifully rendered branches and leaves. His gaze dropped once more to the
occupants of the hall. It was noisy and several heated exchanges were already
underway as rival chiefs took the opportunity to air old grievances. However, as
the more easily identifiable figure of Merlyn entered and stood beside him, the
druid's presence seemed to spread and the noise in the hall slowly died down as
faces turned towards him.
Lowering his hood, Merlyn strode through the crowd towards the centre
where a large fire burned fiercely beside a raised platform. He clambered up, and
stood alongside the heavy oak chair, gazing out over the restless crowd. He made
a striking figure, in every part; he was now the epitome of a druid, instantly
commanding the respect of every warrior in the room. Grey robes cinched about
a thin waist, long grey hair falling about a strongly featured face, now blessed
with a fine white beard and whiskers that flowed onto his chest. The hand that
clutched his druids' staff was almost skeletal.
After a few moments, to be sure all eyes had turned in his direction; he
struck his staff down three times, the incredible booming sound silencing any
who had yet to take notice of his presence.
'Quiet, all, hush now… for I will have you bid welcome… to Uther
Pendragon, war leader of all the tribes and King of you Britons.' Merlyn hung his
head and, with a rumble, all those assembled dropped to one knee as Uther
slowly made his way to the platform.
A step was pushed forward and he climbed up, walked the two paces to the
throne, and sat down. As he gazed out at the grim faces revealed by the light
from the fire and flickering torches, he was glad he was able to sit because his
legs felt like they had been crafted from unbaked bread. He jumped as Merlyn
brought his staff down again, the resounding boom filling the roundhouse,
dislodging motes of dust and straw from the thatched roof, letting in rays of
sunlight to pierce the darkness. As one, the warriors stood and bellowed,
'Pendragon!'
Silence returned, and then one man pushed through to the front and stared up
at Uther, barely suppressed emotion forcing his face into a snarl. Stabbing out a
finger towards the seated king, he swung back to address the gathering.
'I challenge the right of this… impostor to rule. I, Pascent, son of the
murdered Vortigern, am your rightful leader.' The room erupted into angry cries
and a flurry of heated exchanges that subsided as Uther leapt to his feet and
approached the edge of the platform. A hush descended in anticipation of how
their king might react.
'Welcome, Pascent, son of Vortigern,' said Uther, his voice sounding calmer
than he felt. 'I deeply regret the death of your father, as do I regret and mourn the
loss of my brother, Ambrosius, who also fell at Mount Badon. The time of
Briton fighting Briton has to end. We have a common enemy in the Saxons and
must unite to drive them from our shores… join us.' Uther held out his hand
towards the angry man. However, when he saw the look that Pascent threw him,
he realised sadly that the situation was not going to be reconciled peacefully.
Spurning the offered hand, Pascent made to turn away, but then spun back,
drew his sword, and brought it down in a silvery arc intending to sever Uther's
unprotected arm. Uther managed to draw back as the blade slid past, feeling the
soft breeze of its passing before it bit deeply into the newly built platform. The
new, green wood trapped it soundly, the attacker's face turned an even deeper
shade of crimson as anger and embarrassment overtook him. The warriors in the
roundhouse became silent, watching in awed fascination as Pascent tugged
pathetically in a futile attempt at releasing his blade.
He stopped, chest heaving, weeping uncontrollably as rage and grief ran
free.
'I hate you,' he spat, his voice trembling and barely controlled. He renewed
his struggle with the sword. 'Without you and your bastard brother, you… you…
just give me my throne, you… Aaahhh!' the sword finally came free and he
staggered back several paces, forcing several onlookers to complain loudly as
they moved to avoid him, and then he ran back in to attack Uther once more.
Two chieftains moved to stop him, but before either they or Merlyn could do
anything, Uther had stepped forward, jumped the flashing blade, and swung a
kick at his attacker's jaw. It struck with all of Uther's pent-up frustration, and
connected with a solid crack that sent Pascent back into the arms of the closest
chiefs.
'Do not harm him further,' commanded Uther, as Pascent's body was lost to
sight amid the angry crowd. 'He's suffered enough. We have to direct our efforts
to ridding these lands of Saxons, not Britons.' The unconscious Pascent was
carried away as Merlyn came up beside Uther.
'Well done, King Uther.' He patted Uther's shoulder, his blue eyes sparkling
as he smiled. 'That was very well done indeed and it will no doubt grow in the
telling. Their respect for you increases.'
With the excitement over, the debating returned and Uther sat slumped on
the uncomfortable chair, trying to take an interest in the arguments that went on
for the rest of the day. On several occasions, he was called upon to settle disputes
between both tribes and individual warriors, asked his opinion on the tactics to
be employed in the coming battle, and even questioned on his knowledge of the
Saxon leaders. Having now fought several times with Horsa, he was able to give
a good account of their enemy. The council became silent and attentive as his
story was told, growing and expanding as he recounted it. He felt better having
something to offer this gathering of seasoned warriors as he described their
encounters in the Weald, the Roman villa, and at Mount Badon, but when it was
all told, he returned to being little more than an observer, leaving much of the
debate, once again, to more seasoned minds. It would clearly be some time
before Merlyn's lessons would really make him a king.
At the start of every day, and then later, continuing into each evening,
Merlyn would speak of the history of the tribes and the line that had ruled to
make him the king among kings. He learnt of the tribes across the sea, the
Saxons, Jutes, Angles and Gauls, and of the fierce northern tribes of Britain, the
Brigantes, Lugi, Albini and Picts, all of whom coveted the fertile lands of the
south that the Romans had so recently deserted.
'It is our sacred duty to preserve this land, Uther. Yours shall be the line that
safeguards this fragile alliance for the next thousand years, we must turn back
these Saxons before they become stronger, and attack them as soon as we have
the men to do so.'
After several weeks, it was Samel who finally presented a plan that all could
agree upon, a plan to strike at the heart of the Saxon invasion without having to
lure them onto some pre-designated battlefield.
'There!'
Uther gazed down at Samel's finger where it pressed between two lines on
the vellum map. He had already been told that the map was a drawing of their
land and that the lines, apparently, signified the eastern coast of Britain and the
north-south road into the old Roman City of Londinium. It wasn't easy to see
how those few lines could be anything other than lines, and as he glanced about,
he was relieved to see most of the others appeared equally bemused.
'And where are we?' asked a heavily bearded warrior, whom Uther seemed
to recall was chief of one of the southern tribes.
'We… are here,' Samel's finger stabbed down, 'and we want to go to
Aeglesthorp… there… on the East coast below the big river.' The little warrior
glanced up, cast about the room of intent faces and was dismayed to see little
sign of understanding. 'Oh, come on, it's simple! We make our way through the
cover of the Weald and surprise them… here, can't you see it?' He jabbed his
finger down on the map again in obvious frustration, the force bunching the
velum to one side. Merlyn gently smoothed the map out again and nodded at
Samel.
'It's a fine piece of deduction, Master Samel, but why Aeglesthorp? It
appears to lie upon a smaller river, does it not? Is there any reason…'
'I've seen 'em. The Saxons… they're bringing their supplies in here and it's
now their main settlement.' Samel leaned closer and traced his finger along the
line of the river towards open sea. 'If we cut the belly from the snake, then it
stands to reason that the head and fangs will have less bite!' At last there were
murmurs of understanding and agreement, and the serious business of planning
the details began in earnest.
As the days moved into summer, Uther began to wear the mantle of kingship
a little easier. He still didn't feel born to the role, but at least now he didn't have
the feeling he was wearing another man's crown.
A typical day would commence with lessons with Merlyn, followed by a
meeting with the tribal chiefs and elders, reeves, and minor kings, where Uther
would deal with the constant bickering and disputes and listen to the reports
brought in by scouting parties. Skirmishes with the Saxons were becoming more
commonplace, allowing the warriors to test themselves while gauging the extent
of the Saxon expansion. It was a favourite tactic of Uther's tribesmen to travel in
the fast-moving chariots or as small bands on horseback attacking Saxon
settlements in fast raids, harrying the enemy then moving on before any
resistance could be organised. It was a similar tactic to the one the Saxons
themselves had used when first arriving in Britain. On the whole, the bettertrained Britons accounted well for themselves; but it was after one of these
encounters where they had suffered some severe losses that Uther discovered a
Roman practice that he could not approve of.
'Sire, there is a reason the Roman troops are disciplined like this,' explained
Tactus, one of the Roman trained men that had been in Ambrosius' original
group. He was looming over the kneeling figure of an Iceni warrior who had
barely finished making his report. The warrior had been leading a band to test
the southern limits of the Weald, when they were surprised by a larger Saxon
war party. As the Iceni told it, the Saxons had fallen on them without warning
and several of his younger warriors, un-blooded and still fresh from the training
field, had turned and fled, leaving the remains of the party to fend for
themselves. They had suffered heavy losses.
'You believe that killing one man in every ten from the survivors of this Iceni
group will send a strong message to the rest of our warriors. This I can
understand, it would send a very strong message,' said Uther, in a low voice, his
anger barely held in check. 'However, it is not the message I wish to send. I do
not want our people to fear us… to fear me. The burden of guilt lays upon our
shoulders for not training these men better before sending them out. This Roman
practice of decimation, as you call it, has no place in this land.'
With a nod, Tactus allowed the Iceni to rise, but the warrior immediately fell
at Uther's feet.
'You are truly my King, Uther Pendragon; I thank you for my life and will
repay this debt many times over.'
'There is no debt.' Uther sent the man on his way and even Tactus appeared
to approve of the decision.
Every evening, when the burdens of leadership could be set aside, Uther
practised with sword, bow and spear. He was also becoming more proficient
upon the chariot, tying off the reins and shooting the bow or throwing a spear
into a moving target. The moving target was usually Samel carrying a straw bale,
and far from fearing the weapons aimed at him, the little Iceni taunted Uther,
especially when he managed to avoid being hit, and thumped the side of the
chariot with his sword as it sped past.
However, a great sorrow still weighed heavily on the new king's shoulders,
the death of Cal. He continued to mourn his family and friends back in the
village and the more recent death of Ambrosius, but those losses were slowly
healing, while the death of Cal continued to remain an open wound in his soul,
outweighing all else. Scarcely a day went by without his thoughts drifting to the
shock of finding Cal dying in a pool of blood, his friend's eyes open, staring
about the darkness of the roundhouse without seeing him, still more wolf than
boy. In Uther's mind, the blame sat squarely upon the dark shoulders of Horsa,
whose face still haunted his dreams. In the dead of night, it was always the black
Saxon who approached, parting the mists of his dreams with a spear dripping
blood, mocking him and laughing in his face. In the battle on Mount Badon, he
had seen that same spear taking the life of Ambrosius and it wasn't a tremendous
leap to believe that it had taken the life of Cal as well. The future of Uther
Pendragon, King of all the tribes, was uncertain in many respects except one, he
knew for a certainty, that he would face Horsa in battle.
It was early summer when the reeves, chiefs, kings, and finally the druids,
pronounced the omens all correct and the combined forces of the Britons were
ready for war. The Saxon invaders had spent the winter months spreading out
across eastern Cient, the land of the Cantiaci tribe and northwards through
Trinovantes territory, taking control of the largest Trinovante settlement of
Camulod. Merlyn had explained that it was at Camulod where the warrior queen
Boudicca had fought one of her most famous battles, defeating the Roman
legions with a far smaller force. Ultimately, of course, the Romans had returned
and had ruled the settlement as Camulodunum, constructing impressive
fortifications for its defence, but now, the Saxons had taken Camulod, and were
pushing north into the land of the Iceni.
Once again, in the gloom of the great roundhouse, Uther addressed the
largest gathering so far, as he readied his people for war. The nerves that had
plagued him months before, whenever called upon to address the chiefs had
faded, as he finally become familiar with his role as king.
'We are about to take the battle to the Saxons at Aeglesthorp, and then, once
we have beaten them there and cut off their means of retreat, will strike north
and take Camulod.' Uther paused to scan the many faces in the roundhouse
before raising his voice. 'You know as well as I that we face no easy raid. This
will be a battle far greater than we fought at Badon, for our enemy has grown.
Yet we are now so much more than we were upon Mount Badon that day. We are
no longer just individual tribes, we are Britons!' An enormous roar erupted
around him and he held his hands up in an appeal for quiet. After a few
moments, he was able to continue. 'As our main force travels through the Weald,
the chariots will take the old Roman road through the lands of the Ciantiani.
Spirits willing, we shall meet upon the battlefield in eight days.'
He stood and drew Excalibur, the sword ringing with a shrill cry as it came
free from its sheath. Holding the blade aloft, Uther gazed out across the crowd of
fierce, excited warriors, the energy within the roundhouse so palpable that he
could feel it flowing through his body, raising the hairs on his arms and the back
of his neck, before surging out to join the room once more.
'This is our time… let us take back what is ours. Let us finally claim this
land as our own!'
* * *
'What witchcraft is this? You speak of times long since dead; of times we
call history, yet you speak of these things as if they have only just happened and
that it was you who lived them. You mock us poor folk an t'aint right.' The
farmer's wife stood, eyes blazing, and glanced about for support. 'I do not fear
you, storyteller, nor do I fear your strange friend there, neither.'
Uther held a finger to his lips, stopping the speaker short. 'Shhh.' His
reaction brought smiles and some laughter from the audience, the children
giggled and even the farmer was smiling at his wife's discomfort. 'Last year, you
listened when I told you of rescuing a princess from a tower as tall as a
mountain, and the year before I fought sea monsters in the depths of the sea. I
even remember a story a few years back, when I told you of flying to the moon
in a boat made of petticoats and kisses. Why, pray tell, do you get so upset now?
Sit, and please humour two old men a little longer, and maybe I can tell you
something of when your ancestors reclaimed their land.'
'Yes, but I know of this time you speak of. My grandfather used to tell us
about when one of my ancestors fought at Badon Hill, but that was twelve
hundred years ago. You silly old fool, this is the year sixteen hundred and eighty-
three. Not four hundred eighty-three. All these people you speak of are dead…
long dead.'
For a moment, the storyteller seemed to fade a little. It was as if a pulse of
life lifted him away and then set him back again, something within changed. He
ignored the irate old woman and leaned forward to place an arm on the stooped
shoulder of Calvador Craen.
'Something went wrong… is that right, Cal? What happened?'
Calvador Craen glanced over his shoulder at the old woman and then back to
Uther. 'The hour is late, Uther. We still have more of your story to tell, and then
we can finally go home. We owe these good people an ending, an ending that has
been so long in coming. Don't you agree?'
Uther nodded. 'I think I know how this ends.'
Still complaining, the farmer's wife was persuaded back to her seat by her
husband and friends, and the story allowed to go on.