Jack Whyte - Uther

He wrote his letter of testament slowly and with great care, reworking it several times until he was convinced that its meaning was clear and precise and that no one could possibly misconstrue what it said. Then he left it with his Grandmother Luceiia, with appropriate instructions as to how and when it was to be opened.

Foul weather caused Uther great concern and gave him much to fret over. With his allies and supplies all in place, his army had been assembled for more than two weeks, and his carefully prepared plans all indicated that he should already have been on the road for a full week, heading southwestward along the great Roman road to the ancient town of Isca, where they would swing west into the peninsula of Cornwall. But Uther had hung back, against what his mind was whispering might have been his better judgment, stubbornly hoping for a break in the weather and refusing to give the marching order until the last possible moment. He could see little sense in leading an army off to war if its personnel were already sniffling and miserable, cold and soaking wet before they even set out. Their morale, he maintained in the face of the little opposition and disagreement he encountered, would be non-existent before they even lost sight of the battlements of Camulod if they had to slog their way through pouring rain, chill winds and ankle-deep mud. And so he waited, living in hope from day to day that the abominable weather would finally break and that he could lead his men out in sunshine, dry for at least the beginning of their campaign.

It took eight days after their planned starting date for him to get his wish, but the break did come, and although it was not exactly a bright and clarion day of glowing sunlight, there were blue patches of sky visible between banks of clouds in the early morning, and the rain had died away during the second watch of the previous night. Encouraged by the early signs of brightening prospects, he had kept his men in readiness that morning, poised for departure while he waited until the strengthening sun could break through the cloud cover with something resembling authority. Then, when it eventually did, and as the strength of its warmth and light began to grow more and more apparent, he summoned Popilius Cirro to him, along with the senior cavalry commander from the Camulod garrison, and Garreth Whistler and Huw Strongarm from the Cambrian contingent. Telling them to mount up and ride behind him, he led them up to the reviewing stand by the edge of the great drilling ground at the bottom of Camulod's hill and sat there facing his army, waiting for his presence to bring silence.

This was a far smaller army than he had originally intended to command—a mere two thousand strong, as opposed to the six- thousand-man host he had visualized months earlier—but he was convinced that it would be more effective and more lethal than the larger host might have been. His deliberations on the condition of Cornwall after receiving Ygraine's letter had convinced Uther that the advantages he might gain from numbers would be more than offset by the difficulties of feeding and sustaining a large army in a ruined land, and his allies had finally come to agree with him. An army must sustain itself by feeding off the land through which it travelled, but Cornwall, as they had ascertained from the reports of scouting parties sent out for that purpose, was utterly devastated and incapable of feeding its own after the depredations of the leaderless mercenary Outlanders and the internecine wars of the various Cornish warlords. And wherever Herliss and Lagan might be now, the massed strength they had hoped to gather against Lot had evidently failed to materialize. Uther had heard from neither man since their disappearance after the deaths of Issa and Loholt. Against his own will, he had come to realize that leading a massive army into Cornwall would be folly under such circumstances, and so he had conferred with his allies, in both Camulod and his own Cambria, in an attempt to make the best of the unpalatable situation facing them. Lot's Cornwall must be invaded they all knew that and there was no arguing against it—but the invasion Uther now proposed to lead would more resemble the thrust of a sword blade into the lines of cleavage in a lump of coal than it would the sweeping arc of a swung scythe. He would penetrate and cleave in a straight thrust, rather than surge on a broad front. And so the army waiting to depart now was composed of a mere two thousand men, half cavalry and half infantry, and included several hundred Pendragon bowmen. All of them, horse and foot, were hand picked, the best of the combined best of Camulod and Cambria, and as he waited for them to fall silent, Uther Pendragon felt proud of—and somewhat chastened by—the way they had competed among themselves to win a place in the ranks now facing him. He refused absolutely to allow himself to think he might be leading all of them to death, and he silently sucked in great, shuddering breaths to calm his voice before addressing them.

The army had been assembled in its divisions—infantry, cavalry and Cambrian clansmen—for hours, and complete stillness fell over the entire assembly as the men waited for Uther to speak. He took his time, savouring the anticipation in the air, theirs and his own. Then, when he judged the moment to be exactly right, he removed his helmet and slung it from the bow of his saddle before standing up in his stirrups and loosening the clasp of his great red cloak with its emblazoned golden dragon. He swung the garment up and off his shoulders, swirling it around in a great sweep of colour and then catching the folds of it in the crook of his left arm and draping it across his saddle in front of him. Only then did he begin to speak, using his command voice, and his words were clearly audible to every man there.

"Well, lads, the weather's breaking. It looks like a fine day to go to war."

The sound that greeted his opening words was a low rumble, like distant thunder, swelling rapidly, then dying away to silence again. Uther swept the assembled ranks deliberately with his eyes, moving his head slowly from left to right, his gaze taking in every element of the troops massed in front of him.

"We'll be in Cornwall three days from now, and you all know why. There is a pestilence in that country, and we are chosen to stamp it out. Think you we're up to it?"

"Aye, Uther, that we are!" It was a single voice, shouted from an unknown throat, but it brought a bark of laughter and a swelling chorus of agreement.

Uther shouted into the sound as it died away, "That man has won a jug of ale for himself and all his squad mates in camp tonight. Who was he?"

A stirring among the ranks then and a small commotion marked the source of the first shout, and the man, a Camulodian cavalry trooper, raised one hand above his head. Uther pointed him out to everyone who had not seen him.

"What's your name?"

"Caseady, King Uther."

"Well, Caseady, present yourself this night to the camp quartermaster and collect your prize, but you had better bring a friend to help you carry it and prevent you from drinking all of it yourself." This brought another shout of laughter, cheers and jeers, and Uther waited until it had died away completely before speaking again, his voice now sober and serious.

"We are two thousand strong, lads. Not the biggest force that Camulod has ever sent to war, but by all the gods, we might be the strongest and the most agile. We have horse and foot, both, and the finest bows and bowmen in the world. Camulod and Pendragon, side by side. Lot of Cornwall has nothing that can stand against us, but our dearest hope must be that he will try the truth of that. If he does—and he will—he'll rue the day he ever saw us coming. Are you ready for him?"

A great shout of "Aye!"