Jack Whyte - Uther

Morgas, however, was no longer listening. Her eyes, which had been fixed on Ygraine's lips when she began to speak, had filled with anger and then swung away, across the Queen's shoulder. But there they had focused and grown keen. Ygraine frowned, and then turned to see what had distracted her.

A party of nine men had ridden into view over the brow of the hill above and were now descending towards the activity in the valley below. All were mounted on huge horses, but four of these men looked enormous, almost godlike, their apparent height increased by the great, crested helmets that they wore. The remaining five were less impressive, bare-headed and wearing no armour, but nonetheless richly dressed in heavy, beautifully coloured clothing that proclaimed wealth and privilege. Their route took them diagonally across the view of the three women, oblivious to their presence, and the women watched them ride by, noting the heavy armour that the warriors wore and the metal greaves that clad their legs above their booted feet, thrust into long stirrups, which the women had never seen or heard of before.

Morgas was round-eyed. "Romans," she whispered, gazing at their backs.

"No, I think not, not Romans." The Queen's voice was filled with scorn, but her companion did not notice.

"Aren't they huge! I thought the other one, Huw, was big, but these are giants."

"No, they're big, but their armour makes them seem bigger."

"Not the leader. He's bigger than all of them." Morgas turned to look at Ygraine, belatedly aware of the Queen's strange tone. "What are they, then, if they're not Romans? Those are Roman helmets."

"Aye, but those swine are Celts, like us. There have been no Romans in Britain since before we were born. Those are Pendragon, Morgas, and the leader, the one in the red cloak with the golden dragon and the gilded armour, is Uther, their King, or I miss my guess." Ygraine turned to look at Morgas, straight-faced. "Our captor. Your new lover . . . if he's human, which I doubt. Come, we had best be getting back."

Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

Huw Strongarm heard the silence that fell as Uther Pendragon came into view over the crest of the hill. Huw had been talking to two of his senior captains, instructing them on their duties as guardians and captors of the Queen and her train of women, and as soon as the noise above him on the hillside diminished suddenly, then began to die away completely, he knew the cause and dismissed his officers with an abrupt nod. Watching them walk away then and seeing how they glanced up over their shoulders to where Uther would be approaching, Huw allowed himself a smile, finding himself moved yet again to wonder at the respectful awe Uther Pendragon unfailingly inspired in his fierce followers.

Huw had once thought, briefly, that this widespread fascination, close to reverence, was based upon fear, but for years now he had known better. The plain truth was that Uther Pendragon was heroic, a larger-than-life figure of epic energies, courage and enthusiasm, and his warriors revered him as something they themselves could never be. Exactly what that something was, however, Huw had found more than difficult to define. He had tried to identify it many times, only to give up at last and simply accept it as part of the enigma that was Uther, his friend and commander, Chief and King.

Huw continued to stand with his back to the newcomers, determined not to turn around while knowing that he might well be the only person there who did not. He allowed himself one last look around the scene of his recent success. Two enormous piles of weapons lay to his right, where they had been discarded by the men disarming the captured Cornish warriors. They had been thrown haphazardly, tossed aside disdainfully by the men who stripped them from their former owners before herding those owners away like cattle to be held under close guard. Now, each pile of weapons was being sorted by a detachment of Huw's Cambrians. The best of the pickings would be kept as spoils of war, the remainder taken away, buried and left to rust.

Even the men who had been sorting through the weapons now stood motionless, watching their leader approach from above, and Huw's eyes moved beyond them to where a smaller group of prisoners also stood staring up the hill: the Cornish leader, Herliss, and his twelve senior officers, with Herliss himself standing as far apart from the others as his guards would allow. Huw smiled again as he realized how far removed these men were from anything that Uther's Camulod-trained Cambrians would recognize as an officer. He looked then towards the women of the Queen's party, noting that the Queen herself and the two companions with whom she had walked apart were now returning to join the others. A glance up the hill in front of him revealed that Owain of the Caves had been keeping pace with the Queen, as Huw's instructions had specified.

Satisfied that all was as it should be. Huw finally allowed himself to turn around and look to where Uther was approaching, close enough now for the sounds of the horses' hooves and creaking saddlery to be audible. He took two steps forward and stood erect, facing his commander directly and waiting to be recognized.

Uther headed straight towards Huw until he towered over him, looking down from his tall horse and reining it to a halt.

"Huw," he said, nodding, so that the plume on his high helmet dipped visibly. "Everything appears to be well in hand. You had no trouble?"

"No, Commander, everything went as planned. One flight of arrows finished it. When they saw what had happened to their best and swiftest—all cut down and dead within one breath—they lost any thoughts they might have held of resistance. They saw what our bows can do, and they believed."

"How many prisoners?"

"One hundred seventy, all told."

"By the Christian Christ, Huw! What are we supposed to do with two hundred prisoners? That's the last thing I needed." Uther turned his head very slightly to the left and gazed towards the huddle of women without making it apparent that he was looking at them. 'Tell me about the women. There was nothing of women in our report."

Huw frowned and shrugged his shoulders. "A last moment addition, from what I can gather. They were all under cover in the wagons, sheltering from the rain, so we had no idea they were there until we showed ourselves. None of them was harmed."

"I can see that, but who are they?"

"One of them is Lot's Queen. The others are her ladies."

Even beneath the coverings of heavy cloak and armour, Huw saw Uther's entire body stiffen in shock, and it was several moments before the King spoke again.

"Lot's Queen"? Ygraine? No, that can't be right."

"I don't know her name, but she's the Queen." Huw's voice was resolute. "I spoke with her. I asked which of them was the Queen, and she answered me."

Uther reached up and flipped his helmet's cheek-guards up so that they framed his helmet's cask like wings or horns, allowing him to peer down at Huw. "But how did you know? You didn't know there were women with the train, so how could you have known one of them was the Queen?"

Huw nodded, his face solemn. "They made it obvious, the moment we launched our attack. The common soldiery. Lot's men, were caught flat-footed, as we expected, but the others—the group over there, behind my right shoulder—showed themselves to be of a different mettle altogether. They threw a defensive ring around the women instantly, a wall of shields. They were ready to die, then and there, protecting those women . . . or one of them. As soon as I saw them move and form up, and the way they held themselves, I knew they were either an honour guard or a blood guard of some kind." He shrugged. "I don't know who they are or where they came from, but they're fighters, and not one of them wears the crest or the trappings of Gulrhys Lot. My guess is they're all mercenaries, garrison troopers from the private army of some powerful warlord. The others, all of them, wear Lot's dung-coloured trappings."