The Dragon's Banner (21 page)

"Soon we will march. Some of you will go
south with me, others north and east with King Urien, but we will
still be together, brothers in arms, united against the foe! Our
enemies have erred grievously, for they have placed their
confidence in their numbers, not reckoning the true strength of
free Britons fighting for their homes!"

He held his fist high in the air as he spoke,
and his deep, booming voice carried over the assembled host. The
warriors were driven nearly to a frenzy, screaming, banging their
swords on their shields, and raising their arms in the air. Those
who held banners or standards waved them frantically, and others
grabbed torches and timbers from the fires to hold aloft.

Uther continued, his hands raised high in the
air. "I ask naught of you than to fight alongside me, my brothers,
for never shall I rest until our foes are beaten and driven before
our arms. We will not fear, we will not hesitate, we will not
negotiate! To hell we will send all who have despoiled our land and
slain our comrades! To hell our blades shall dispatch them in
thousands. To hell, where they all belong!"

The tumult continued as Uther disappeared
below the battlements, and when a moment later he walked out of the
open main gate, the cheering became even louder, with warriors
screaming, pushing, trying to touch his cloak or just get closer as
he walked among them. For an hour he strode through the ranks,
clasping hands with barons and stopping to ask the names of the
lowliest peasant levies. When he was done, the army - Gorlois' and
Urien's men as well as the Powys levies - was his. The faltering
morale from early defeats and the hard march north was forgotten,
and in its place was the spirit of an army aching to follow its
commander into any fight. Uther looked around as he walked from
cluster to cluster of adoring soldiers and thought to himself, they
are ready.

A woman's scream echoed through the halls of
Tintagel Castle, then another, louder one. Outside, a late summer
storm raged, and the howling winds whipped the torrential rains
around the crenellated tower. Inside, behind the battened windows
and great stone walls, there was excitement and activity, for a
queen was about to give birth.

Igraine was lying on the richly made bed, her
legs spread wide as the midwife spoke to her in calm, soothing
tones. "The baby is almost here, my queen." She spoke softly, and
gently rubbed Igraine's sweat-covered brow with a wet cloth. "Now
you must push again."

Igraine breathed deeply and struggled,
screaming at the agony. The midwife spoke again, this time
excitedly. "The baby is coming. One more great push, my queen, and
it shall be done." Igraine's magnificent copper-colored hair was a
disheveled mess and her face was drenched with sweat. She clenched
her fists and strained again, and then, just as she thought she
could push no more, she heard the cries of the baby and the joyful
mutterings of the midwife and her ladies.

"You have a healthy daughter, my queen.” The
midwife smiled happily. She took the child over to a basin of warm
water and washed her gently before swaddling her in soft cloth. She
walked back to Igraine, carrying the newborn bundled in clean white
cloth, and handed the child into the waiting arms of the new
mother. Igraine took her daughter into her arms and held her
tightly. He face was plump and pink, and she had wisps of soft red
hair, but it was her eyes that Igraine noticed first, for she had
seen that steely gray color before.

Igraine was exhausted and pale, her bed
clothes soaked with sweat. Her ladies cleaned her up and brought
her fresh bed coverings, while the midwife took the child and
placed her in a small basket, covered in silken blankets.

It was perhaps an hour later when King
Gorlois strode into the room, taking a cursory glance at the child,
now sleeping in the basket beside Igraine. "Pleased we are, lady,
that you have come through the birth well, though we had rather
hoped for a son."

She looked up at her husband and spoke, her
voice toneless and without emotion. "Thank you, my lord. I am sorry
that I did not give you a son and heir." His comment would have
been hurtful if she truly cared what he thought, but she didn't.
Gorlois did not smile exactly, but his dour expression softened
slightly. "Worry not, my lady, for you yet shall give me an heir.
Rest now." He turned and left the room as abruptly as he'd entered,
without so much as another glance at the sleeping newborn.

Igraine sighed softly and thought about her
life at Tintagel. So much had been taken from her, for she'd been
forced to leave all she loved behind and journey to a strange land.
Gorlois was a callous and cruel man, and little joy did she have in
her marriage. She had done her duty in marrying him and accepted
her obligations as his wife and queen, but she didn't love the
course and thoughtless brute. She didn't even like him. She lived
her life caught in a trap, a gilded one with many comforts, but a
trap and a cage nonetheless.

She was achingly alone, for Gorlois would
permit none of her former ladies to attend her at Tintagel, and
though he'd provided her with a retinue befitting a queen, no
friend among them did she have. She saw little of her husband, and
that only when he came to her bedchamber, though even then he
mounted her like a bull and was done and gone in a few moments. It
was nothing like her night with Uther. She smiled sadly as she
thought of that brief moment of her life…and of Uther
Pendragon.

Ah, Uther my love, she thought, where are you
now? Do you suffer as I do? Are you safe at Caer Guricon, or do you
struggle and bleed on the battlefield far from my aid and comfort?
God keep you safe, my love, wherever fate may lead you. I do not
think I could bear it if you were hurt or slain. Though I know you
cannot come home to me, I beg God to spare you that you come home
to whatever joys you may find in this life.

She turned and looked at her sleeping
daughter and smiled warmly. "Anna, I shall name you, little one,
for such was called Uther's mother. Your grandmother."

"Since Uther Pendragon has returned our
fortunes have taken an ill turn. When we set our bargain,
Vortigern, I trusted to your words and plans. The conquest was to
be a quick one, yet now we find ourselves pushed back and
uncertain…and my brother Horsa slain in your son's defeat at the
hands of Leodegrance and Merlin. Seven kingdoms are allied to
Powys, and though our early battles were victories, and they looked
ripe to fall, none have we yet taken. Too much faith did you place
in the Picts, and by their failure the north has been lost, freeing
Uther's warriors to face us, and three more victories has he since
won. We are driven back everywhere."

Vortigern sat impassively and listened to the
giant Germanic warrior king rant, for he was a vital ally,
especially now. Six and a half feet stood Hengist, and as broad and
strong as he was tall. Blue eyed, with long blond hair braided down
his back, he wore a simple brown tunic belted over leather pants
and boots. On his head was a crown, simply cast from bronze and
adorned with semi-precious stones in a variety of colors. What a
poor excuse for a king, Vortigern thought to himself. He looks like
a barbarian pulled from the forest and crowned with a cheap child's
toy. Which, of course, is exactly what he is. But he is still
useful.

"Hengist, my friend, we have suffered
setbacks, it is true, but we are still stronger than our foes.”
Vortigern spoke calmly, seeking to ease his ally’s concerns. “Uther
Pendragon is a problem, for his leadership has greatly exceeded my
expectations. Indeed, of late he seems like a force of nature,
emotionless and impervious to suffering, either his or of those who
serve him. He is in some way possessed by a force we do not
understand. But we will prevail nonetheless.”

He looked at Hengist, staring into the
barbarian’s blue eyes. "Many years it took me the gain control over
Constantine's valet, and to make him the manner of the king's
death. Yet despite the poison that should have taken him quickly,
Constantine lived for many months more and looked even to regain
his vigor for a time. Merlin, I fear, was the source of that last
burst of strength, though in the end even he was unable to save the
king. I feared for a time that Constantine's wily wizard had
discovered my plot, but in the end he was fooled just as they all
were.” His lips tensed slightly as he spoke of Merlin, betraying
fear of the mysterious old wanderer, but Hengist wasn’t perceptive
enough to discern it.

"Constantine Pendragon, I perceived, was the
only man capable of forging such an alliance as we now face, and by
Merlin's cursed interference he lived long enough to do so. Still
would this coalition have faltered, but unlooked for was his
youngest son's force of will, for the kings now follow Uther
unquestioningly…and with greater obedience than ever they offered
his father, for they not only respect him, they fear him as
well."

Vortigern looked silently at the pewter cup
in front of him, still half full of the harsh red wine he favored.
He was an old man, older even than Constantine had been, though
through his knowledge of the ancient arts he had slowed his decline
somewhat. He was of middling height, and though once of powerful
build, he had become thinner and frailer with age. His hair was
silvery gray and his eyes dark brown, and he was clad in extremely
fine red silken robes.

"We must attack soon, Hengist, for Uther's
strength grows with each victory. Indeed, more than his strength,
for quickly is Uther Pendragon becoming a legend. We can defeat
warriors, we can defeat kings, but men are wont to perform
extraordinary deeds when he whom they follow ceases to be a man and
crosses into mythical stature. I daresay, an assassin may prove
more useful than a score of armies, for the alliance would collapse
without Uther, and indeed, his mystique would work then for us. All
of the seven kings and their warriors would plunge into despair
were their invincible warrior king to die, poisoned by his
soup.”

Vortigern paused and drank from his cup.
"Merlin I would also have slain if such can be managed, for he has
thwarted me too many times. For though Uther is the tool he uses
against us now, and Constantine before him, it is Merlin who is the
true enemy and architect of that which stands between us and
dominion over Britannia."

Hengist shifted uncomfortably on his feet,
with the barbarian's fear of the mystical. "Who can face a wizard
and prevail? For any warrior can my men slay, even Uther Pendragon,
but he who can summon sorcery is beyond the powers of men to
confront."

Vortigern was amused by his companion's
primitive superstitions. "Merlin is powerful and sly, yet he can be
slain as any other man. Old he is, and wise, for he was aged
already when I was a but a boy. But a man he is, and though
long-lived, only a man. In him are the last vestiges of druidic
power, yet these are waning, and with them his strength. And behind
his skills and knowledge, he is mortal, even as you and I."

Hengist still looked nervous, as if they
discussed something haunted and unspeakable. He opened his mouth to
talk, but managed only a short grunt.

Vortigern wore an amused grin. "Worry not
about Merlin, Hengist. Task yourself to rousing your men, that they
might defeat Uther's army in the field. Concern yourself with cold
steel and the hands that wield it, and leave the wizard you so fear
to me."

Hengist was stung by Vortigern's taunt, and
he flushed with anger. "I fear nothing." He slammed his fist onto
the table and turned away.

Fool, Vortigern thought to himself. Do you
remember nothing about how to handle these savages? "Hengist, you
are a king and a trusted ally." His tone was coldly calculating,
though his far less sophisticated companion did not perceive the
manipulation. "Never would I doubt your courage or prowess in the
field. I meant only that Merlin is an adversary more suited to my
skills, while Uther and his army are best met with your veteran
warriors."

Vortigern's words calmed Hengist's ruffled
pride, and the blonde giant turned back to the table and sat down.
"Forgive my anger, Vortigern. When we meet his army in the field, I
shall personally take the head of Uther Pendragon and present it to
you."

Such pointless bluster, Vortigern mused
silently. Working with these barbarians is indeed trying. If you
meet Uther Pendragon in battle, he thought, I fear it is your head
that will fall, and that toy crown of yours will decorate the
mantelpiece in Caer Guricon. "I depend on your valor, my friend."
He stood up and placed a hand on Hengist's shoulder. "Though I have
some hope that Uther Pendragon might die ere he reaches the field.
Prepare your warriors, for soon we will march west and fight the
final battle, whether he be alive to lead his host or no." He
turned and began walking toward the large double door that led to
the main corridor. He paused at the doorway and looked back at
Hengist. "But now I have other tasks that await my attention. We
shall speak again later." And with that, he disappeared into the
corridor.

"Do you trust him, father?" A large blonde
warrior spoke a moment later while walking in from the corridor
leading to the kitchens. He was taller even than Hengist, and he
had to duck to pass through the doorway without striking his head.
He resembled Hengist greatly, for he was Octa, the king's eldest
son and heir.

"Nay, my son." Vortigern thinks we are but
stupid savages that he can use as he wills. Alliance has so far
been to our advantage, but as high king he will never allow us to
retain our rule in Kent, for he is a Christian, or at least all of
his lords are. I know not what Vortigern worships in his heart.
Perhaps only himself."