Shadowland (27 page)

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, tears running down his
face 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 better-trained
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!’ A deafening
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.’