Jack Whyte - Uther

Uther looked down at the crumpled missive in his hand and shook his head ruefully. "I . . . I was not aware of doing that. Here, sit yourselves down and listen and judge for yourselves whether or not I should be angry." He smoothed the letter out and then read it to them, leaving out only the mention of the Queen's pregnancy. When he had finished, Garreth sat quietly for a while, staring into the brazier, while Owain of the Caves sat gazing straight at Uther.

Finally Garreth spoke. "Where did that come from? It's specific. And it's not the kind of information given to the average grunt."

Uther nodded. "You're right, it's not. It came from my informant in Lot's camp."

"Your informant. I see. In Lot's camp. Of course, where else could it have come from? How long have you had one of those?"

Uther sighed and signalled to both of them to be seated, and when they were, he told them everything about his dealings with Herliss and Ygraine. They listened without interrupting until he had finished, and then Garreth Whistler asked, "Why did you not tell us sooner?"

"Because we didn't need to know about it." This was Owain, and his response, and the readiness of it, caused both men to look at him in surprise. "Well, it's the truth, isn't it? What we didn't know we couldn't let slip in our cups. Now, it's clear that you want us to know, so what happens next?"

"I'm not sure," Uther said. "That's why I'm asking for your advice." He glanced inquiringly at Garreth Whistler.

Garreth shrugged his broad shoulders and looked away, pursing his lips before responding. "I know we'll be able to make life rough for the seaborne invaders coming into Carmarthen," he said eventually, his eyes fixed on the glowing coals. "The terrain will work for us there and we'll have the advantage of surprise, so I'm confident we'll hammer them and throw them back to where they came from . . ." He turned and looked back at his protégé, the King. "But what can be done against the other two armies, the ones hitting Camulod? That's what I'm wondering . . . and I can see you are, too. There's no terrain advantage there for Camulod to use . . . nor us, either. A mile out of Camulod itself in any direction except straight along the high road, you're in deep forest, and deep forest works as much against you as it does for you. Can't use cavalry in there, and bowmen are useless most of the time. Too many trees and not enough space to shoot cleanly." He stopped and looked at Uther shrewdly. "Do you have anything at all in mind, or are you waiting for the Camulod people to work out their own salvation?"

"They can't work out their own salvation! Well, that's not true, I suppose they can—they're going to have to. But Merlyn's still not himself, and that's what frightens me most of all. He's the only one with balls enough to do what needs to be done. Titus and Flavius are good, but they're old now, both of them, and too set in their ways, having relied on Merlyn and his father, Picus, all their lives for strong leadership. Besides, they're cavalry officers above all else, Roman-trained and Roman-minded, and this fight that's looming has nothing Roman about it.

"Camulod will be relying heavily on us, and we won't be able to give them too much support, even if we slaughter the invaders at Carmarthen. By the time we march from there to Camulod, it could all be over. So I'm going to have to come up with some solution quickly. And what you say is right: knowing the terrain gives us no advantage at all in this instance. None at all . . ." He fell silent, staring into the brazier.

"The worst of it is, these two commanders, Issa and Loholt, are the best Lot has. They're probably among the best in Britain, because not only are they both Roman-trained, they're trained as independent mercenaries—guerrilla fighters accustomed to operating on their own without having to answer to a chain of command.

These fellows are fighters to reckon with. They were Rome's mercenaries long before they became Lot's. They hate each other's guts, too, from what I've heard, which means they won't be operating jointly, so I can't see any way of dealing with them as a single enemy force. Each of them will move in separately for the kill, with Camulod's wealth as the prize, and that means neither of them will waste any time in anything they do. And as you heard for yourself in the letter, each of their armies is the size of a full legion."

Uther looked from one to the other of his two listeners. "Two armies, each at legion strength . . . Even allowing for a huge exaggeration, that's at least three and perhaps four thousand men apiece. Greedy men, lusting for a prize, and all of them afraid they'll lose it if their allies reach it first. That could mean as many as eight thousand mercenaries, all of them unpredictable and all of them hungry, marching into Camulod from two different directions." He snorted, a bitter, self-deprecating sound. "The only clear idea in my mind is that we need a scourge, a sickness, like the one that hit us here recently, but far more fatal—and we need it now. It need not be a widespread pestilence, just a gods-sent little one that would kill Issa and his cohort Loholt. With those two gone, Lot's armies would not even march, because there's no one else who's capable of leading them."

"What about the other two we spoke of months ago, what were their names?"

"Cuneglas and Ralla, Lot's Cornishmen? They're incompetents. The German mercenaries probably wouldn't even march with them. But it would be a waste of time, I think, even to wish for anything like that. The gods have never taken the time to smile on me before, so the odds against one of them sending us a plague now, when I need one, are daunting. Issa and Loholt are healthy and itching to be on the road. They'll be massing for departure in six weeks. Which reminds me, is everything ready for our journey to Carmarthen tomorrow?"

Garreth nodded. "Aye, everything is in order. We'll be off at first light."

"Good. I want to be back here within ten days, and after that I'm going to ride down to Camulod for a brief visit just to see how things are progressing there. I'll be back here within the week after that, and by then it will be almost time to gird on our battle armour. So, Owain, where have you been? I haven't set eyes on you in months."

Owain of the Caves began telling Uther all that he had been up to since last they met, and as he listened, Uther's attention kept being distracted by a recurrent vision of Ygraine of Cornwall, sitting on a high-backed chair with a laughing child on her knee. It was a vision that was to remain with him constantly from that time onward, one that would catch him unawares at the most unexpected times and one that he quickly grew to love. On this occasion, however, all thoughts of Ygraine were suddenly banished when he realized that Owain of the Caves was asking an important question.

He had enjoyed working with Uther, Owain said, and he was grateful for the new life accorded to him here in Cambria among the Pendragon warriors, who had adopted him as one of their own. The fact that they had tutored him in the use and care of their magnificent longbow was more significant to him than any other recognition he had received from anyone in his entire life. Now, however, having learned that there was a life to be lived out there in the world that had no resemblance to the miserable existence he had known before joining Uther, something deep inside him was telling him to go and seize it before it became too late for him. He would fight in the coming war, he promised, but after that he would like to return to his place of origin, in the north of the country, simply to see if there was a life of any description up there that he might salvage.

Uther listened without comment until the big man was done, and then smiled, hiding the consternation he felt and putting the best face he could on what he was being asked to do. The taciturn Northerner had served him well, doing the few things required of him without demur or complaint, and Uther had come to depend upon the silent big man. He knew well that there was nothing to be gained in saying anything other than yes, but he felt it was important that he should not only accede to Owain's request, which was far from unreasonable, but also encourage the man to follow the demands of his heart. He finally stood and embraced Owain of the Caves, giving him his blessing and even urging the man to go as soon as he felt the need to go, knowing that a welcome awaited him back in Tir Manha should life in the north lands not turn out to be as he hoped.