Jack Whyte - Uther

Uther spent a number of long, frustrating hours that evening with ink and paper, working far into the night by the light of a cluster of tapers as he struggled to find and then set down the words he wanted to address to Lagan Longhead. It was one of the most unpleasant and demanding tasks he had set himself in years, since it involved intense mental effort without physical release from the cramped constraints of writing, head down, for hours . . . everything, in fact, that he found least pleasing . . . but eventually it was done, and he had a fair copy, free of blemishes, of what he wished to say to his Cornish ally.

The following morning, he summoned Nemo and explained to her what he required of her. She was to ride to Lagan, carrying the stone about her neck to present to him, and once she had been received by him, she was to deliver Uther's letter and then return home to Tir Manha. Any response to the letter would be sent back by another messenger at a later date.

Nemo listened, nodded, saluted and left immediately to carry out her commission, and Uther, resigned, settled in to wait and to hold himself in patience.

Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

In late January a messenger arrived from Cornwall, bearing a letter from Lagan Longhead, its three pages dense with information. Uther greeted the messenger with grave courtesy and thanked him for his time and effort, then sent him off with Garreth Whistler to be made welcome in the kitchens.

As soon as he was alone and could expect to be undisturbed for a time, the King went into his own quarters and sat close by a burning brazier to read what Lagan had to say. He read slowly, concentrating fiercely on forming the sounds made by the block letters that Lagan had inscribed in a firm, bold hand, and listening internally to the music of the Latin words as he formed them, haltingly at first, and then more confidently once he began to catch the sense of what he was reading and saying aloud.

The Queen, Lagan reported, had worked hard to ingratiate herself with the two German generals, Cerdic and Tewdric, and had learned that their plans were well advanced—far beyond the initial stages. Their attack would be launched from Cornwall as close as possible to the middle of April, around the time of the Roman Ides, and the landing place would be Carmarthen, on the other side of the great estuary from Tir Manha. The reason for the mid-April timing was one of co-ordination. The other invasion, involving the twin armies of Issa and Loholt, neither of whom the Queen had been able to approach in any way, would begin moving northward, overland towards their attack points, some time in the first week of April, weather permitting. Their departures would be separated by a week in order to enable the first army, which had much farther to travel, to make the great, looping movement required to turn and attack Camulod from the east. In order to ensure that all three attacks combined should generate the greatest impact and preserve the element of surprise, Cerdic and Tewdric would contain their seaborne army in Cornwall for a full two weeks after the departure of the first of the two land armies. Only then, when both of those were close to being in position, would the naval invasion set sail.

The initial attack from the sea into Cambria would be a two-part thrust. The Cornish fleet would strike land initially in a large, shallow and sheltered bay with a gently sloping beach approximately three leagues to the west of Carmarthen, unloading its army during daylight, after which the newly landed force would move quickly against the town itself. They would spend the night on the hills behind the former Roman fort at Carmarthen and attack with the dawn, hoping to surprise the defenders and overwhelm them before they could organize any resistance.

According to Ygraine's report. Lagan wrote, the leaders of the planned assault were confident and self-assured. They had accurate information about the defences of Carmarthen itself and about the lie of the land in the immediate area surrounding the walls, and they had two contingency plans governing the outcome of their initial attack. If their surprise was as successful as they anticipated, they would simply take possession of the town and use its wharves and warehouses to unload and store their supplies. If, on the other hand, their initial surprise fell short of expectations, their vanguard would fall back in time to conceal the full strength of the attacking force and would then draw itself up in battle lines on the flat land outside the town walls, from where they would taunt the Carmarthen Griffyds until their warriors went out against them. As soon as that happened and the Griffyds were committed outside the walls, an arranged signal would be sent and half a score of Cornish galleys that had not unloaded their cargo of men with the rest of the invading fleet would swoop in and attack the wharves and docks along the waterfront, spilling sufficient warriors into the town from that side to attack and capture the town gates.

That was all Lagan had to report, but he promised to write again as soon as he came into possession of any other information. He ended his letter by mentioning that Gulrhys Lot had been seen smiling recently, since he had learned that his wife, Queen Ygraine, was with child and would give birth sometime in June, just in time for his victory celebrations.

Uther sat gazing open-mouthed at the letter in his hand, his face gone blank, the colour draining from his cheeks, his awareness of the world around him suddenly suspended as he found himself reeling on the edge of an abyss called Fatherhood. He had joked about the possibility with Ygraine. but he had never really anticipated for a single moment that it might be possible for such a thing to happen. Casual by-blows as the result of pleasurable but meaningless coupling occurred all the time, seldom drawing notice, but the fathering of an heir, fatherhood with responsibility . . .paternity as he remembered Merlyn calling it . . . was for other people— people who were ready for it. It was for men who sought it; men who had an eye to their mortality; men who were married and besotted with their wives. He was a King, still very young and untried, with grave responsibilities. He did not have time to be a father . . .

At that moment, he caught himself and remembered that this paternity would be no burden on him here, for Gulrhys Lot seemed happy to accept and acknowledge the child, if it should be a boy, as his future heir. . . his first-born legitimate son . . . But this would be Uther's first-born, not Lot's . . . most certainly not Lot's! And suddenly he was deeply, viscerally angry that Gulrhys Lot should dare lay claim to a Pendragon child. Bad enough that he already had half a dozen sireless bastards all of whom he claimed were his, but that he should now seek to use a Pendragon, a blood descendant of Ullic and Uric, as a false crutch to prop up his sorry claims to manhood— it was too much!

"In the name of the lame god, what's wrong with you?"

The words brought Uther back to himself with a start and he turned to blink in surprise at Garreth Whistler, whom he had not heard entering the room. Owain of the Caves stood behind him, gazing calmly at the King over Garreth's shoulder. Uther gathered his wits and sat up straighter, responding to the unexpected question with false bluster.

"What d'you mean, what's wrong with me? There's nothing wrong with me. Good day to you, Owain."

Owain nodded wordlessly as Garreth Whistler grinned and held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Oh, then I'll ask your pardon. I simply happened to see the look on your face and the death grip you have on that parchment you're holding, crunched up into a ball. . . Lagan's news was good, then? I confess, from the look on your face I thought it might be disastrous."