Jack Whyte - Uther

That memory prompted him to wonder when he had last done such a mundane thing for the simple pleasure of doing it, and he winced to recall that it had been more than ten years. He eased himself forward off the bank, balancing precariously, and stood up in the stream bed. The water surged once above his knees, wetting the lower extremities of his pulled-up trouser legs, then settled back to flow steadily by the tops of his shins. Awkwardly, almost teetering as he did so, he unfastened his cloak and swung it quickly up and over his head, whirling it around to twist it upon itself before he threw it to land on the grassy bank. He had not been quick enough, however, and the hem of the garment scattered an arc of water drops as it swung upwards, and as he turned to watch it spin towards the bank, his foot stuck in the sandy bottom of the stream bed, he almost overbalanced, swaying dangerously and waving his arms as he fought to retain equilibrium. He managed to save himself from falling, although barely, and as he straightened up, splayfooted and tentative, he found himself wondering what Ygraine might have thought had she seen him swaying there so ludicrously on the point of toppling headlong into the water.

Carefully then, moving slowly and deliberately on the treacherously muddy slope of the riverbank, he clambered back up onto the grass, where he sat down again and dangled his feet in the water to wash the mud of the river's edge from between his toes. When he was satisfied that they were clean, he dried them roughly with an edge of his cloak before pulling down the wet lower legs of his trousers and retying them, allowing his thoughts to drift to this Lady Ygraine, who had fallen into his hands without his volition.

At first glance, beside the golden, long-haired beauty of the tall and voluptuous Morgas, Ygraine's beauty had been barely noticeable: quiet and restrained, understated and gently but effectively concealed almost completely beneath an air of modesty and shyness. Once he had adjusted to the fact that her role in his camp dictated such an attitude and air, however, Uther had looked beyond and seen the woman herself, finding her to be surprisingly spectacular in her own way. Her hair was a deep, dark, chestnut red with golden highlights that shone when she moved in bright light. Her face, small and oval, was fair-skinned and placid, yet surmounted by green eyes that could blaze and flicker when her temper was aroused—and that the woman had a temper was a matter that he never held in doubt, once he had seen beyond her air of quiet reserve. She had a wide, mobile mouth that smiled and laughed easily, although he had seen her do so only from a distance, and her teeth were white and regular, free of blemish or weakness. Her nose was neither straight nor hooked, but clean- edged in profile, with pleasing, smoothly flaring nostrils. Her eyes, perfectly spaced above high, wide cheekbones that looked as though they had been chiselled from smooth stone, were surmounted by smooth brows of a lighter red than her thick tresses. All in all, he thought, a woman of fine beauty, worthy to be wife to a King. And he angrily pushed that thought from his mind.

Much had changed since Lot's Queen had first become his prisoner, so that now he had left her alone and unsupervised with one of her own men . . . potentially the most dangerous of all the enemies he held confined here in his camp. She was Cambria's ally now, Camulod's and his. He blinked, thinking about that, and visualized her as she had looked when he left her to bring Herliss to meet with her. She was pleasant to visualize, even in the plain, unadorned brown gown that she had been wearing that morning. Unrelieved by highlight or by jewelled brooch or belt, it had simply clung to her, hanging in drapes and flowing folds that brushed the grass at her feet and revealed every curve and every hollow in her shape.

Feeling himself begin to respond physically to his thoughts, he abruptly sat upright and coughed, clearing his throat and his mind simultaneously, and reached for the socks he had discarded. He pulled them on, stretching them over the ends of his trouser legs, and then pulled on his heavy boots again, tying the lacing thongs tightly and then standing up and stamping his feel until they fell comfortable. No sooner had he done so than he heard Herliss calling his name. He scooped up his cloak and settled it about his shoulders, then made his way back to where the older man stood outside the lent, waiting for him.

As Uther emerged from the screen of willows, Herliss saw him and began striding towards him, holding up a peremptory hand so that Uther stopped in surprise and waited for the other man to reach him.

"What's wrong?"

Herliss was glowering at him. "Nothing, but you and I have to talk, alone. I need to know, where do we go from here?"

Uther grinned in satisfaction. "You mean you are in favour?"

"Do you take me for a complete fool? Of course I am in favour, and not merely because mine is the first life that will be saved." The old man looked about him. "I need a drink of something, something cold. Do you people drink beer?"

"Come."

Uther turned immediately and led the way along the riverside towards the main body of the camp. They came to a fallen tree, shorn of its limbs, that stretched across the stream, and crossed it in single file. When they reached the commissary tents, Uther went directly to the second one in line and called for beer, and moments later turned back to Herliss, a large flagon topped with foam in each hand.

"Here. Cambria's best."

They drank, and Herliss swallowed enormously, draining half his flagon, then nodded judiciously and belched loudly.

Close by them, in front of one of the commissary tents, was a trestle table flanked by a long bench on either side. Uther nodded towards the benches and moved to sit on one of them. Herliss sat opposite him and placed his tankard on the tabletop.

"Good beer. Now let's talk about how to proceed from here."

"You made your mind up quickly."

Herliss's response to that was swift and keen-eyed. "You think I'm gulling you?" Uther kept his face expressionless and made no attempt to speak, and finally the other man grunted and growled in his deep, rough voice, "Either that, or you think me an idiot and a facile coat-changer."

He waited, cocking one eyebrow in defiance, but when Uther again failed to respond, he continued. "I spent most of my life being loyal and obedient to Lot's father, and, in the old Duke's memory, I have been loyal to his son. Not always obedient, though, and not recently. Loyalty, however, I've given. Too much. It is a strange word, loyalty. Loyalty is honour, or it was where I was raised . . . and when I was raised . . .

"Where loyalty and honour and even obedience are passionately involved, people can go blind and deaf from time to time, and things can happen that don't get looked at too closely. But loyalty makes demands of its own. It has to be two-way, otherwise it can't live long. It's a give-and-take thing, and there's no getting around that. And if people don't get loyalty in return for their own loyalty, sooner or later they stop being loyal. And then they start to see things they didn't see before, and to hear things they never heard, and they start to pay attention to what's going on around them . . . Things like having their own sons sent out to bring them back in chains and being forced to do that under the threat of danger to their families. Lot is holding my grandson's life over my head as a threat . . . Ach!" He spun away and spat. "But why should I be surprised? He's been doing the same thing for years to almost everyone I know. That is how he ensures their loyalty."

Herliss picked up his tankard again and emptied it. "Tell me, what are your plans for Cornwall?"

Uther gazed at him blank-faced for a long count and then shook his head. "For Cornwall? I have no plans for Cornwall, other than to kill this creature who kings it and then get back to my own home as quickly as I can. I have hundreds of plans for Cambria, for my own home, all of them urgent, but I can tend to none of them since every time I turn around this rabid animal who calls himself your King is sneaking and snarling at my back. I want him dead. Dead and dismembered. I want his loathsome hide nailed to a wall for everyone to see and spit upon. I want him gone from this world, never to harm another living soul, his maggot-eaten skull impaled before my tent, a grinning warning to all men who would be like him. What I want, in the end, is the opportunity to live my life among my own, in peace and comfort. I want a wife of my own, and sons to bear my name, and I want them to live contentedly in Tir Manha in Cambria."