Shadowland (16 page)

‘That’s the other thing; you keep calling me Uther,
but my name is Usher.’

Ambrosius shrugged his shoulders. ‘Your name is
Uther. Maybe the family that took you in changed your name to help hide you, I
don’t know. 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 soon march on
Vortigern, and we still have that battle to plan.’

Standing up, Uther nodded to the three men and
retired to the sleeping room 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 he 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 be, 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…’

‘Do you remember what happened to Meryn? He told us
about escaping from the Picts and how he searched for Clarise,’ 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...
’

Chapter Ten – A rusty sword

For
three days, Meryn meandered in a southerly direction, doggedly crossing the
main forest path from east to west then back again. There were plenty of tracks
to follow, but so far, none of them leading away from the main path had been
made by man... or little girl. There was an abundance of deer, boar and
rabbits, and it was these animals’ paths that he walked, all the while seeking
some sign to show where Clarise had gone.

Late in the third day, he was following a series of
deer trails, still trying to head south, when he noticed a lighter area ahead
amongst the trees. As he got closer, he could see there was a break in the
forest canopy, a large patch of grey sky hanging above what appeared to be a
massive patch of brambles. It would have been far simpler to go around, and he
almost did, but a strong urge to seek what he was sure would be an open centre
suddenly consumed him and he began forcing his way in.

The brambles were old and dense, crowding each other
as they reached up towards the light. As he hacked with his sword and forced
his way through, they tore at his clothing and scratched at any exposed skin.
He spent as much time untangling himself as he did cutting through the heavy,
thick stalks; yet the desire to continue only became stronger. Digging deep
into his last reserves of both energy and curiosity, he pushed on.

This was, in many ways, his final push. His
determination to track Clarise was fast losing a battle of wills with his
stomach, having eaten little of any real substance in days. If he didn’t find
anything after all this effort, he would stop his search, return to the main
path, and head south; his stomach rumbled as if in agreement with his thoughts.

‘Quiet down there,’ he muttered, then seeing a few
old blackberries still clinging to the brambles, he snatched them from their
thorny stem and crammed them into his mouth. They were hard and shrivelled this
late in the season and tasted bad, but he swallowed them anyway, hoped they
wouldn't sour his stomach, and continued towards the clearing.

The sight that presented itself when he did
eventually burst through, carefully picking the last clinging stem away from
his cloak, caused Meryn to hesitate, and then think very seriously about
turning round and fighting his way back out. It almost did... but he didn’t.
There was indeed a clearing inside. It was roughly circular, completely
surrounded by the thick wall of brambles, and overshadowed by some of the
tallest trees in the forest. However, it was what lay within
that had unsettled him, lush green
grass growing through a circle of standing stones.

‘Druid stones,’ muttered Meryn in awe, as he cast
about the clearing. He quickly scanned the shadows, seeking the druids who must
surely call this place home, then finally exhaled the breath he had been
holding when he realised that he was alone. He wavered for a moment, his
half-starved brain unsure of what to do. It was dangerous to mix in the way of
druids, but if they knew something of Clarise’s disappearance, then he needed
to explore the circle. With a sigh, he set off, skirting the perimeter while
being careful not to cross into the circle itself.

The stones stood upright, were just over waist height,
and looked as if in some ancient time they had erupted from the bowels of the
earth, pushed by some immense force to point accusingly at the sky. He took his
time to study each one as he walked past, listening to the silence, allowing
his senses to explore the strange aura of the glade. What it was used for he
had no idea, but he knew as a certainty that it was some kind of doorway
between this world and the world of spirit, that was the way with druids.

Calm down, Meryn, he counselled, dragging his
attention back to the stones. They reminded him of huge jagged, rotten teeth.
Still slick with the previous night’s rain, there was a stark contrast between
the dark grey of the stone and the moss that grew on each in a variety of
colours and textures. As he slowly passed each one, he noticed a tingling
sensation. It was as if the stones were vibrating slightly and transferring
their energy across to him. He reached out, stopping his fingers just short of
the rough surface of the closest stone, and then thought better of it and
quickly walked on.

Within the circle stood a larger stone, roughly
shaped with a flat top, dominating the centre of the glade with its presence.
The moment he saw it, Meryn felt his concentration drawn forwards as all fear
left him, and a feeling that it was safe to enter within the circle overwhelmed
him. He stepped confidently past the stones onto the soft grass.
  

While his mind confirmed he was safe, he was vaguely
aware of his ears telling him the birds had stopped their singing and the wind
was no longer moving the leaves in the trees overhead, he was walking the soft
grass of the circle in almost complete silence. The only sound appeared to be
coming from the stones with their soft vibrating hum, and the loud beating of
his heart as it echoed in his ears. He approached the central stone and noticed
for the first time that an object lay upon it, a sword, old and tarnished, its
leather sheath rotting and decayed by the elements. He watched absently as his
arm reach out unbidden, and then saw his fingers wrap around the hilt and slide
the sword free of the crumbling leather.

Excalibur
, the name
echoed in his mind, as if attached to a thousand tiny bells, and there came a
momentary spark of connection between him and the rusty blade. Trembling
slightly, he
laid the sword down and then, without really knowing why, removed his sleeping
fur and rolled it round the ancient weapon before securely tying it with a
bowstring.

Now, with the old sword slung across his back, Meryn
felt exposed at the centre of the circle, and a shiver travelled through him.
It was almost as if the stones had finished with him and were now trying to
expel him. Fear once again fluttered in his chest as he glanced anxiously about
the glade trying to see a way out. This was the strangest place he could ever
remember being in and he was ready to leave. It wasn’t that anything was
specifically threatening, but it wasn’t particularly welcoming either, it was
all just so unsettling.

Running across the grass, he stepped outside the
stones and found himself at a small open area cut from the brambles on the
opposite side of the circle from where he had entered. The sounds of the forest
filled the air again and the memory of how things had happened in the circle
had already started to fade. He glanced around the little clearing, eager for
distraction. Obviously, it was where the druids made camp when they were here.
In the centre, a fire area still had wet grey ash and a few charred branches
remaining in a black depression burnt into the earth. Six sleeping places were
set about the fire, and in three, freshly cut grass and bracken formed
comfortable-looking pallets. He bent down and felt one. It was damp from the
previous night’s rain. Scattered
at the head end were herbs, their fragrant smell
wafting up as his hand disturbed them.