Jack Whyte - Uther

Uther scratched his nose gently with the tip of his middle finger, his cupped palm masking his mouth as though to cover a smile. "And which one is the Queen? Don't look at them!"

Huw checked himself, on the point of turning to indicate the woman. "The tall, fair one in the yellow robe."

Uther lowered his cheek-flaps back into place again, enclosing his face. "How is her temper?"

"Icy, but what would you expect? She has no love of Pendragon, especially you. She looks on you, above all, with less than favour."

Uther cocked his head, his helmet's crest dipping noticeably to one side. "Are you being insubordinate, young Strongarm?"

"Me, Commander? How could you even think such a thing?" Even beneath the covering flaps of the war helm, Huw thought he could discern Uther's teeth flashing in a grin, but he schooled his face to remain blank. "Her eyes almost fell from her head when she heard your name, Commander, and I thought she might puke."

Now Uther did laugh, a short, deep bark. "Aye, she had probably been told I would not arrive here in Cornwall until next month at the soonest. But you allowed her to walk apart unguarded. Why?"

"Not so." Huw's head shake was barely visible. "She's been under constant guard. Owain of the Caves has been watching her every move, from up there on the hill. Had she tried anything, he would have stopped her quickly enough. Shall I bring her to you?"

"No, not yet. You did well here, Strongarm. Are there any signs of other military activity in the area?"

"None. I've had scouts out ranging for twenty miles in every direction since we arrived here yesterday. Nothing moving anywhere, except this group."

"Good." Uther braced himself, straight-armed, in the saddle, one hand on the front and the other on the rear, lifting his armoured body clear of the seat and turning himself from side to side to look about him again. Then, satisfied that he had seen everything there was to see, he lowered himself back into the saddle and smiled once more at Huw. "Now tell me about the train. What's in the wagons?"

"I have no idea, Commander. Haven't had time to look. We only took them less than an hour ago, and since then we've been organizing the prisoners. As soon as that was done, I had thought to have the wagons unloaded and then burned. No point in leaving them for Lot to reclaim."

"Good. How many wagons?"

"Twenty-four, not counting the four that held the women and their goods. A rich haul."

Uther dipped his head sideways. "A large one, at least. Whether it's rich or not is something we'll find out later." He straightened his legs again and gripped the saddle horn, pulling himself upright so that he stood in his stirrups, then reached up to grip the metal housing of the high red horsehair crest that surmounted his helmet and used it to press the heavy cask down onto his head. When he was satisfied with the way it felt, he turned his head and looked about him one more time. The three officers and five unarmoured men who had accompanied him all sat their horses quietly, waiting patiently. Huw saw no sign of Uther's gaze pausing or taking note of the Cornish leadership, but when the King's eyes returned to his own, Huw was unsurprised at the first question.

"What's his name, the leader over there?"

"Herliss. That's all I know."

"Herliss! Is it, by all the gods? Then we have won a prize, whether the woman be Lot's Queen or no. I know this Herliss, or I know some relatives of his at least, and I've heard much about him. He is one of Lot's best . . . certainly one of his most experienced, since he served the old Duke Emrys before Lot's time. Herliss is a real warrior, unlike his King. But then, I'd expect no less of the man set to guard Lot's Queen, if that is who she is. I fear his master will be less than pleased with his success. Have one of your men bring him over here, Huw, but not yet. Now, the other group of prisoners on the left there, the Queen's guard, who commands them? Have you isolated him?"

"No, Commander, I have not. As long as we hold the Queen close, they should give us no trouble, and if we split them, we might regret it. And so I left them with their leader. Was I wrong?"

"I don't know, Huw. That might depend upon how good a leader he is. But if you were wrong I have no doubt we'll hear of it. Very well, then, let's move on. I think I might best remain mounted for the time being, looking down on lesser mortals from up here. Have someone bring Herliss to me, and start your men unloading the wagons." Uther turned in his saddle to one of the well-dressed civilians behind him. "Samson, you read and write. Organize the unloading and make some kind of list of what we have here. I have no need of accurate amounts for now, but I would like to know the substance of what we will all be carrying up into the hills. We may wish to bury some of it somewhere and return for it later. See to it, would you?"

The man called Samson nodded and swung himself down from his saddle immediately, where he detached a leather satchel that hung from his saddle horn. Then, grasping the bag tightly, he nodded to Huw and fell in behind him as the big Celt walked away. Uther watched them go and then turned to the man closest to him on his right.

"There's no work for you here, Quinto, and I confess that concerns me. What am I to do with two hundred prisoners? I expected at least some of them to fight . . . and therefore die. And you would think that, with their Queen among them, they'd have made some effort to defend her life, if not her honour."

The man to whom Uther spoke was Mucius Quinto, a veteran surgeon in the forces of the Colony of Camulod, trained in the Roman Army Corps of Surgeons, and one of the small group of surviving officers who had served in Rome's legions with the Legate Picus Britannicus. Second in rank to his friend Lucanus, Mucius Quinto held the responsibility for the medical welfare of Camulod's entire populace, military and civil. For this campaign in Cornwall. Quinto had been seconded to accompany Uther's army and see to the physical and medical welfare of its personnel.

Now Quinto nodded towards the score of corpses laid out neatly in a row alongside the road.

"Some of them did attempt to fight, but apparently they spilt no blood other than their own."

"Aye, but not enough, Mucius, not enough of either: too few corpses, too little blood." Uther's gaze moved from the small pile of dead men towards the press of prisoners. "What in the name of all the gods are we to do with all these people? Can't simply kill them all out of hand, can we? That would really give the people around here a tale to frighten their children with. Uther the man- eater . . . I can hear the outraged screams already. What would Cousin Merlyn do now, think you, if he were here?"

"Probably much the same as you will do," Mucius Quinto replied, permitting himself a small smile. "Disarm them, tie them together like chains of slaves, keep them terrified for a time in the sure expectation of death, then leave them behind, somewhere distant, to free themselves."

Uther Pendragon sucked air through his teeth and quieted his horse, which had shied nervously at a fly bite. "Free themselves to do what, return home? To face Lot's mercy after having lost his wife? Would you go home to that?"

Quinto's negation was slow and measured, a deliberate head shake. "No, Commander Uther, I would not, if even half of the things we hear of Lot's nature are true. But then, I am from Camulod, and I'm no warrior." He turned to glance towards the group of mounted men at their backs, four of whom were members of his medical staff. None of them appeared to be paying any attention to what he and Uther were saying. Mucius Quinto shrugged and turned back to Uther. "From these people, you need fear nothing more. Away from Lot, they'll not carry arms against Camulod or Cambria again."