Jack Whyte - Uther

A bright green, knee-length tunic of heavy cloth, bordered in a deep, dark, brownish red and pulled up to accommodate his saddle, was belted at Garreth's waist, and beneath it his legs were trousered in the same green cloth, the bottoms tucked into a pair of high, thick-soled, spurred boots that were his pride and joy, and the only Camulodian things the Whistler owned. A long, plain cloak of darker green was fastened at his breast by an intricately carved clasp of silver, and the sides of it were thrown back from his shoulders to hang down his back, spilling over his horse's rump and leaving his arms free. His head was bare on top of his long, curling white-blond hair. His arms, wrists and legs were heavy and strong, thickly roped with muscle, and the short, broad, sheathed sword that hung by his left side seemed slender because of their bulk.

"I was thinking, too," Garreth continued eventually, "that you were being very free with your expectations of kingship. You're not the King yet, and you might never be."

Uther blinked, and when he spoke his voice was quiet, all trace of raillery gone. "I know that, Garreth."

"I know you do, but the men don't know it—or if they do, they don't care. But what happens if the Chiefs should choose someone else? That's going to leave you looking foolish."

"And why would they choose someone else? They—"

"They might see you as too much the Outlander, that's why. You spend too much time away in Camulod, they'll say. They've been saying it for years. Too much time in Camulod and not enough in your own land. They'll disregard the fact that all the men who ride with you are their own men from Cambria. And if anyone brings it up, they'll be shouted down, and your men will be categorized as you are, strangers and no longer to be trusted. They've learned too many alien ways to be pure Cambrian warriors. And you, you're too much the Roman nowadays for some of their proud stomachs, despite your birth and boyhood. You're never here where you should be, always too far away and for far too long."

"But that's—"

"That's true, Uther. as far as they are concerned. They believe, and rightly so, that a King must tend his people all the time. Remember that these are not merely disgruntled malcontents who have nothing better to do than complain. Like you, these men are Chiefs of the Pendragon Federation—Pendragon. Llewellyn and Griffyd. They will decide upon the kingship, and you have but one vote. They have a weight upon their minds and hearts, Uther. They have a binding duty to pick the best man from those available among their own number. There are seven from whom to choose, and six of those are always more available year-round than you have been these several years."

"They will pick me, Garreth. They need a warrior."

"Balls! They are warriors, even the oldest of them—tried and tested leaders."

"Aye, but four of them are too old to take the kingship."

"Right! And that leaves three to pick among. And two of those are better known and may be better liked than you. Huw Strongarm is the youngest Chief ever to rule the northern Pendragon clans, and he's beloved by everyone—a warrior and a champion, a bard and a lover. A fine, upright young man. He'll be a great King some day."

"But not this time."

Garreth nodded, a terse jerk of his head that conveyed his reluctance to agree. "No, not this time. He's still too young, little more than a boy. That leaves only Meradoc, but he would be your biggest threat even were Huw old enough. Meradoc has the love and trust of all his own folk—" Garreth broke off, twisting his face wryly at the disbelief that had sprung into Uther's face. "Well, I may be overstating that a bit—he is Meradoc, and that in itself makes him hard to love—but nonetheless it is undeniable that he has strength enough among his own people to win. He has support, and that means he has the numbers, and it matters not whether he holds them through love or fear."

"Numbers mean nothing in this. There are but seven votes. Seven single voices."

"Numbers mean everything, Uther. Think you that the Chiefs will be unmoved by the opinion of their people? Would you vote in defiance of your own people, flouting them simply because you wish it? You could, because you are their Chief. But how would that affect the way your people think of you? Do you think after that they'll follow you willingly, or any other Chief who disregards their wishes, into battle, into death?" Garreth paused to let that sink in. "Meradoc will vote for himself, and you will vote for yourself, so those two votes are gone. That leaves but five, and of those five you will need three. You'll have no time available for courting anyone, because the Choosing will begin the moment you arrive. Everyone else will have shown up already, and you can be sure that Meradoc was the first to get there, to lay his claim for support among the others."

"He'd serve himself better by keeping quiet. Meradoc has no skill in bending men to like him."

"Perhaps not, but he is an able man, you can't deny him that, and that will speak loudly for him. He leads his people well, and the only real victories we have won so far in this war with Cornwall have been his—his planning, his force and his leadership. There's more than one minor chieftain who thinks that Meradoc would make a strong King."

"Aye, and the people would weep beneath his feet forever after. Meradoc is a bully, Garreth, and he's greedy."

Garreth shrugged. "Ambitious, isn't that the Roman word? He wouldn't be where he is now if he were not ambitious, and neither would any of the others, including you."

Uther Pendragon drew a deep breath and looked about him before responding to that. The last of his men had long since vanished up the steep stream bed, and even the sound of hooves had faded into silence. Finally he returned his gaze to Garreth Whistler, and his voice was as expressionless as his face.

"You think him stronger than me? The better man?"

Garreth curled his lip and kicked his horse into motion. "I should knock you off your horse for even asking that, boy. Come, we ought to keep up with the others."

As Uther swung his horse around to follow, Garreth set his mount to the rocky slope, half turning in his saddle to talk back over his shoulder.

"All I meant was that you should be careful of how you behave— to your own men and to the men who must judge you before choosing you. Don't look too confident, and don't look arrogant. But above all, don't look too Roman! If you ride into the gathering wearing that armour, you'll destroy any chance you have of being chosen. You know the Chiefs. You know how they think, how they disapprove of anything they see as differentness. Don't hand them the power to thwart you. Old they may be—several of them too old, perhaps, to remember how it feels to be young—but none of them has lost the taste for exercising power when he can. This conclave gives them that opportunity . . . the power to kill younger men's dreams."

Uther was very quiet thinking about that as their horses scrambled up the last portion of the steep climb to the crest. He knew Garreth was right, that something as insignificant as his appearance could cost him the King's Chair. How much better it would be if he could spring into prominence and into the kingship as his grandfather had.

Within the Pendragon Federation, Ullic, as Uther knew, had been the first man in living memory to serve as both King and War Chief. He had been elected King by the unanimous choice of his fellow Chiefs when he was only twenty-one, directly following the death of his own father, Udall. But Ullic Pendragon had already been wearing the huge Eagle Crown of the War Chief of Pendragon at the time of his election to the kingship.

A natural warrior, bred of generations of fierce fighters who led their clan with honour and distinction, Ullic had come early to recognition upon the unforeseen death, in a brilliantly executed ambush, of Ullic's Uncle Daffyd, War Chief of the Federation, and his entire staff of close subordinates. Their leaderless army found itself outflanked and outmanoeuvred by an enemy far more numerous than they had expected, led by a brilliant general, rather than by the simple seagoing brigand that they had all expected to find in command, and disaster loomed over all of them.