Jack Whyte - Uther

Cativelaunus of Carmarthen and Brynn of Y Gaer remained absent and unregretted at the festivities.

Meradoc struggled awake and pushed himself up onto one elbow, blinking at the shadowy shape that towered over him in the grey light. Then, recognizing the Cave Man, he shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind and winced at the hammer blow of pain the movement caused. Cursing and groaning, he struggled to sit up, spitting to clear his mouth. Owain of the Caves made no sound but simply stood there, slightly hunched, beneath the sloping roof, staring down at him.

The sound of heavy rain battering at the leather of the tent above Owain's head set the Chief's teeth on edge. Through the partially open flaps he could see shimmering puddles of rainwater being whipped by the force of the downpour. He squinted and spat again, then pulled his knees up until he could sit straight-backed.

"How long has it been raining?"

"Most of the night."

"By the swarming gods, I must have drunk the entire cask last night. Where were you?"

The big Northerner shrugged. "I had things to tend to. I thought you'd have no need of me, and I'd been long without a woman."

"Hmm. What hour is it?"

"Just after dawn. I thought you'd want to be astir early today. I brought water, in case you need to wash the sleep out of your face before going out."

Meradoc looked to where Owain was pointing and nodded his head, seeing the leather bucket that hung from the pegged frame at the foot of his cot. "Good. Where's Janus?"

"He was here when I arrived. Don't know where he is now, but he probably went looking for food. There are no cook fires this morning. I'll be outside when you're ready."

Meradoc watched the tall man leave, stooping to clear the flaps as he went, and then he dragged himself free of his sleeping skins, stood up and stretched. His head felt awful and he reeled, staggering sideways for half a step until he regained his balance. Mumbling curses to himself, he scratched at his groin, aware that it was past time for another delousing, and then he stooped to fling cold water on his face, scrubbing at his eyes and then rinsing his mouth. Shivering from the shock of the water and the dampness of the morning, he dried his hands and face on a sour-smelling piece of rag and then dug into a chest of clothes, pulling out a warmer tunic than the one in which he had slept. He pulled the soiled tunic over his head, noticing the stink of stale beer that clung to it, and shrugged into the heavier one, tugging and pulling at it until it hung comfortably, then strapping his sword belt over it. When he had finished, he glanced up again at the roof of the tent, noting the shiny wetness of the saturated leather, then peered blearily about him, searching for his campaign cloak. It lay in a heap on the floor in the corner where he had dropped it several days earlier. Moments later, safely muffled in the heavy garment, he thrust aside the tent flaps and stepped out into the torrential rain.

There were upwards of half a score of men standing about, all evidently waiting for him to emerge, and he blinked at them, failing to recognize them immediately since they were all swathed in protective, heavy-weather cloaks of wax-scraped wool. Owain of the Caves he recognized, since he had seen him mere moments earlier, and Huw Strongarm was there too, his beardless face setting him apart. He recognized Cunbelyn next by his elaborate cloak, despite the fact that its bright colours were rain-sodden almost to the point of blackness. He recognized the other Llewellyn Chief too, his own cousin. Hod, by the width of his enormous shoulders. Then another of the watchers raised his hand and pulled his hood back from his face, revealing himself as Cativelaunus, which meant that the smaller man behind him must be Brynn of Y Gaer.

"What's going on?" Meradoc demanded, his face flushing in a frown as he looked from face to face. "Where's my man Jaiius?"

"Trying to find a pool that's still enough to let him see which of his two faces is redder," someone said, joking about the two-headed Roman god who could see past and future at the same time. But no one laughed. "In the meantime, we came to help you welcome the Choosing day."

Meradoc turned to face the man who had spoken, knowing that something was badly wrong. "Garreth? Garreth Whistler, is that you?"

"Aye, it is, wishing a good day to you, Meradoc."

"How came you here today?"

"He came with me."

The voice was deep, its tone emotionless, and its owner, a tall, broad-shouldered man who had been standing farthest away at the very rear of the crowd stepped forward as he spoke, throwing the hood back from his head. Meradoc felt his heart freeze as he recognized Uther Pendragon. And beside Uther, Owain of the Caves stood motionless, staring at Meradoc with his arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked beneath his armpits for warmth, his face expressionless. Owain wore no cloak, and the shoulders of his tunic were sodden. Meradoc gaped from Uther to Owain and back to Uther. Uther did not wait for him to find his tongue.

"We arrived late last night, long after everyone had gone to bed, so we made no noise, wishing to disturb no one. Are you not glad to see me, Meradoc? I almost missed the Choosing. That would have been shameful, would it not?" He waited for the space of three heartbeats and then spoke again. "What, have you nothing to say?"

Meradoc made to speak, then coughed to clear his throat, determined to brazen this out despite the fact that he had no idea what had gone wrong. "Well." he grunted, "I'll not pretend I'm glad to see you, Pendragon, for I'm not. We had received word that you would not be coming."

"No, Llewellyn, not so. Word that I was dead is what you had, and you believed it. Because when Owain here came back yesterday, you assumed he had done what you sent him to do, which was to kill me, in much the same way you had my father killed." The pause that followed was very slight, but Meradoc felt the world crash down around him then at the flat, truthful accusation in the Pendragon's words.

"Except, of course," Uther continued, "Owain's arrow would not have been tipped with venom. Owain does not deal in poisoned arrows—has no need to."

Meradoc tried to swallow, to clear his mouth, but his throat was swollen with panic, and the beat of his heart was hammering loudly in his ears. He tried to conjure a way to win back the initiative as Uther continued speaking, but the words hit him hard, falling like hailstones about his unprepared ears.

"But the gods permitted me to save Owain's life, and so, being a man of honour, he made no attempt on mine. He knew you'd have him killed for that, though, and he was prepared to leave Cambria in order to save his life. Until I offered him a place with me. He liked that, because he knows he'll be in less peril with me . . . I do my own killing, unlike you."

"You're mad, Pendragon." Meradoc's fingers closed around the hilt of his sword beneath his cloak.

"No, Llewellyn, that I am not. You suborned some of my father's guards, and they allowed the Cornish bowman to sneak through our lines and kill their King, my father. Then you killed the guards before they could be questioned and condemn you."

Meradoc had no way of knowing that Uther Pendragon was merely provoking him, quoting what he had been told without a feather's weight of proof, for what he had said was the complete truth. And so Meradoc moved, leaping towards the Pendragon, screaming denial and whipping his sword from its sheath, thrusting the folds of his cloak back over his shoulder to free his arm. But he was far too late. As his weapon swept up and down in the killing stroke, Uther's sword arm emerged from beneath his cloak to block the blow, his long cavalry sword already bare, and the blades clashed and then slid together loudly as they met. Each man leaned into his blow, absorbing the strength of the other's strike, so that they strained together for long moments, face to face and chest to chest. Then Uther spun sideways and away, leaving Meradoc to sprawl forward onto his hands and knees while he himself sprang backwards, shrugging his loosened cloak so that it fell behind him, leaving him unencumbered. He stepped carefully away from the wet, discarded cloak, leaving it well clear of his feet, and then began to circle, half crouched, as he watched Meradoc struggle to his feet and divest himself of his own cloak.