Uther

BOOK FIVE

Cornwall

Greetings, dear Mother, I hope this finds you well.

I know it has been less than a month since I last wrote to you, so I hope you will not be alarmed to receive this, another missive from me, in so short a time. I am very well, but I have tidings that might affect Uther, and since I have no way of knowing whether or not he remains in Camulod, I decided to send them through you.

You might remember my telling you several years ago of a woman called Mairidh who lived with us here in Tir Manha for some months. Her husband, Balin, was in the service of Duke Emrys of Cornwall at that time, although he and our dear Ullic were friendly for many years. Mairidh and I, too, became good friends, and she has written to me on several occasions since she and Balin were summoned home. I have recently received another letter from her, and the tenor of her message has prompted me to write this to you.

Mairidh and Balin have been living quietly in retirement since the death of Duke Emrys, but it seems that Gulrhys Lot recalled Balin more than a month ago and charged him with the kind of task he performed so well and for so long on behalf of the old Duke. Lot, benighted creature that he appears to be, initially attempted to coerce Balin to his will by proposing to keep Mairidh in his custody as a hostage against Balin's good behaviour in the performance of his task, which was to be a special envoy to Eire. He misjudged the temper of his man, however, for Balin, knowing how important his participation in this venture would be, defied Lot openly, citing his own advanced age and the necessity of having his dear wife accompany him to tend to his health and well-being. Lot relented, seeing that he had no other choice, and permitted Mairidh to accompany her husband.

Lot's foolishness has perhaps worked to our advantage, since it prompted Mairidh to sit down and write to me, telling me about Balin's new task and her disgust with the creature Lot and his inept attempt to control her husband. Briefly, Lot formed an alliance some time ago with the King of the Hibernian Scots in Eire. The result of that alliance was the Erse invasion of Camulod in which Merlyn captured and held hostage the Erse prince, Donuil. Since then, the Scots of Eire have made no hostile incursions into this land, and nothing further has come of the alliance.

That might now be changing. According to Mairidh, Lot has visions of using the sea power of the Erse King Athol Mac lain, who apparently owns great fleets of galleys, and he has sent Balin into Eire to negotiate a renewal of the alliance, which is still nominally in place. Should he be successful, Lot could, at a blow, acquire vast resources of shipping and enable himself to move large numbers of men and weaponry along the coast, thereby threatening both Cambria and Camulod. I believe it is imperative that Uther know of this immediately. Please send word to him as quickly and directly as you can.

In another portion of her letter, Mairidh wrote of how Lot has set about systematically to vilify Uther in the eyes of the people of Cornwall by spreading monstrous lies and rumours about him. She knows, of course, that none of what is being said is true, but she wished me and Uther to be aware of what is being said of him. Rumours are being spread of atrocities and outrages being committed by Uther and his army. They speak of rapine and mass slaughters being carried out on ordinary villages and hamlets, with children and old men being hanged and killed out of hand, while women, young and old, are being violated, mutilated and debauched, most of them by Uther himself. So successfully has this campaign of lies been carried out, Mairidh told me, that women in Cornwall now threaten their errant children with the name of Uther Pendragon, frightening them into obedience.

Not all of this is new to me, for we heard rumours of it in the past from travellers. I even mentioned it to Uther half a year ago, but he merely laughed at my outrage and passed it off as some kind of tribute. Only people who inspire fear and constitute a real threat to the status quo at any time are ever honoured with such malignant attention, he told me. The fact that Lot of Cornwall goes to such lengths to denigrate the name of Uther is merely a testament to how greatly Lot fears Uther.

At the time, I was calmed by his amusement, despite my fears, but now I wonder again. The reputation that he now has in Cornwall might help his campaign there by spreading terror, hut I cannot see how such a thing can benefit his future memory.

Give Uther my love, if he is still with you in Camulod, and write back to me soon.

Your loving daughter, V.

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

Lagan Longhead spread his right hand and twisted it sideways to lay his rigid fingers delicately against the iron of his axehead, fanning the tips so that they lay almost exactly along the edge of the blade. The heavy iron head lay on his left hand, resting on an oily cloth, and its shaft lay beneath his right forearm, reaching right to the elbow. His fingers left clear impressions in the thin film of linseed oil he had just added to protect the metal against rusting. Shit! he thought, and reached to wipe the marks away with an end of the rag draped across his other hand. Then he laid the axe gently on the top of the low tree stump beside him. That done, he wiped his hands conscientiously with a clean rag, finishing the job by scrubbing his palms and fingers against the rough hide of the sheepskin leggings that enclosed his thighs, fleece inward. Only then did he take hold of the axe shaft, hefting it so that the clean-lined muscles of his forearm rippled and Hexed. He ignored the leather thong looped through a hole in the handle's end, allowing it to dangle. Only in battle would he loop the thong around his wrist.

The axe was magnificent, his favourite weapon and his dearest possession. Its broad, heavy head gleamed dully, surmounted by a wicked, tapering, thumb-thick spike, and the tempered edge of its chopping blade was keen enough to cleave cleanly through metal and bone. Its shaft was perfectly cylindrical, of thick, close-grained wood, and its entire surface was engraved with intricate designs of twining brambles, thick with thorns and delicately picked-out leaves, stained to a rich, dark brown and polished by decades of care and handling. Lagan had no idea how old the weapon was, but he knew it had belonged to his grandfather, who had taken it in a fight against some invading Outlanders.

He swung it up again and caught the shaft near the head in the cradle of his extended left hand, sighting along the line of the spike towards another, tall and much-scarred tree stump some fifteen paces from where he stood. As he did so, he heard the sound of his son's voice, shouting as he ran towards the house. Lagan cocked his head to listen, his arms still extended. Even though the house stood between him and Cardoc, he could gauge the boy's excitement by the tone of his voice and the speed with which it approached. He heard his wife, Lydda, call out then, telling their son his father was at the back, and then he returned to his sighting, His right arm flew out and back, and he hurled the axe just as his son rounded the end of the building behind him. The weapon flew end over end, its shape a whirling blur, then smacked against the tree and clattered to the ground. The boy almost skidded to a halt, his eyes wide. He seldom saw his father miss a throw.

Lagan turned his head and looked at his son, keeping his face expressionless. "Bring that thing over here."

The boy brought the fallen axe, and Lagan nodded. "Stand back."

As Cardoc obeyed. Lagan swung again, this time pivoting completely and throwing round-armed when all his weight had shifted to his left foot. The axe whirled again and thumped hard into the wood of the tree, its edge biting so deeply that Lagan had no thought of asking his son to retrieve it. He walked forward himself and levered strongly upward on the shaft, prising the deeply buried edge free before turning back to his son.

"You look guilty, lad. What have you been doing?"

Young Cardoc shook his head, his face flushed. "Nothing, but I distracted you when I ran around the corner."

His father shook his head, dropping the butt end of his axe handle into the metal loop on the belt at his waist so that the head rested against his left hip. "No, you did not. I heard you coming long before that. I misjudged my throw, that's all."

The boy was grave-faced. "You don't often miss."

"No, I don't, not when I have a stationary target. But even so, it's really a stupid thing to throw an axe. An axe is for swinging, not for throwing. As soon as it leaves your hand, you're weaponless, and a living target won't stand still waiting to be killed. If you can miss a dead tree, think how much easier it would be to miss a running man . . . And if he's running at you to kill you, you're dead." He wiped his hands again on his leggings, then rubbed the palms together briskly. "I heard you shouting as you came to the front of the house, but I couldn't hear what you were saying. What was it?"

"Uh, the King is looking for you, and no one knew where you were. Master Lestrun sent people to search for you. One of them saw me and sent me here to see if you were at home. Lestrun says you are to come immediately."

Lagan sighed and bent to pick up his rags and a pot of linseed oil, placing them on the small, roofed shelf against the back wall of the solid log-and-clay house that was his home. "Well, when the King commands, we must obey." He cocked his head at his son. "I don't suppose you could have any idea what this is about?"

The boy shook his head, wide-eyed and mute, and his father nodded and began to walk around to the front of the house, the boy trailing behind him.

Lydda was waiting by the open door, Lagan's long travelling cloak folded over her arm.

"You might need this."

Lagan eyed It distastefully, shrugging his shoulders beneath the thick, warm tunic of fleece that already encased him from neck to mid-thigh. "I doubt it. If I do, I'll come back for it. Lot may be the King and his affairs important, but I am not leaving on any journey in mid-morning without bidding a proper farewell to my family simply to keep him in a pleasant good humour at having his own way immediately."

Lydda smiled at her husband. "So you say, old Gruffy, but you know you do everything he asks you to, exactly when he wishes ii to be done."

Lydda was a tall and stately woman, but her husband placed his arm about her shoulders and drew her easily beneath his own. She fitted against his side with the ease and compliance of long custom, and he dipped his face to kiss the top of her head. "I had better see what he wants. It might be urgent. But let's hope it doesn't involve a journey. If it does, I'll come back home before I leave." He squeezed her against him and she raised her mouth to his kiss. Then she leaned in the doorway, still clutching the spurned cloak, to watch him until he disappeared from sight.

Cardoc sat on the doorstep, watching his father and saying nothing.

Lydda reached down and tousled his hair. "What are you up to today?"

The boy turned to look up at her, teeth flashing in his shy smile. "Oh, nothing much. I was playing with Tomas and Ewan. I think I'll go back."

"Away you go, then." She watched him vanish, too, then moved back into the house, leaving the door ajar, wondering as she went what it was that had Gulrhys Lot so excited this time. She liked the King well enough, she supposed, having known him for many years, and his friendship with her husband had broadened to include her, too, but she would not have been prepared to take a blood oath that she trusted him entirely. Lagan, on the other hand, was utterly loyal to him. "The King's true man," she had heard others call him on several occasions, and the tone in which the words were said invariably left her wondering whether or not she had imagined resentment or sarcasm or even sneering condescension in the utterance.

The two men had been bosom companions since early boyhood, and their friendship had grown and strengthened. Since Cardoc's birth, however, Lot's visits had become far less frequent.

Lagan would hear no ill of "Gully," though the gods knew well that there was enough ill being spoken of the King to deafen all the underworld. The tales of atrocities committed by Gulrhys Lot and in his name by others—most particularly by those loathsome Outland creatures of his, Caspar and Memnon—were harrowing and plentiful. Lydda suppressed a shudder, remembering the King's hideous Egyptian sorcerers, long since vanished from Cornwall and unmourned by any. Rumour—violently and vehemently denied by Lot himself—had it that they had died in Camulod among the godless savages up there. If so, Lydda, thought, the world was a better place.

As for the tales and rumours of the horrors that went on in the King's name, Lagan had never seen the slightest evidence to support their truth, and so he gave them no credence. Lydda knew how much of Lagan's value to the King lay in his innocence and integrity. She suspected that Gully would go to great, even extreme lengths to hide his less pleasant doings from her husband's eyes and ears. And that suspicion troubled her deeply, for it suggested that her fine and noble husband could be gulled and thought a fool, and she knew he was no such thing. Innocent, honest, trusting, loyal and open-minded, yes, he was all of those, and prepared at all times to extend the benefit of doubt until faced with irrefutable evidence of fault or guilt. Once faced with such proof, however, her husband was implacable. That same sense of perfect probity which led him to expect the best and the finest, noblest behaviour also enabled him, when necessary, to be the harshest in securing justice and prosecuting the guilty.

She stopped by the window, arrested by that thought, and stood staring out into the bright morning light, seeing nothing.

Did Gully see Lagan as a fool—gullible, trusting and capable of being swayed? Could Gully be that evil, that manipulative? Lydda blinked and shook her head, thrusting the thought aside, assuring herself that she was being silly. She looked about her, trying to remember what she had been doing before, and then went back to her household work.

As Lagan crossed from the shade between the houses fronting the King's residence and stepped into the bright, morning sunlight, he sensed, rather than saw, the King's guards stiffening to attention at his approach. Lagan Longhead had never liked the guards, even before the death of old Duke Emrys, whose fear of being murdered had led to their posting. Emrys was long since dead, murdered by time and ill health, and his guards had been helpless to forestall either of those stealthy marauders. But the guards remained, their presence now surrounding and supposedly sustaining Emrys's son and heir, Gulrhys Lot, self-appointed King of Cornwall.

As he strode through the main portals into the elaborate compound, Lagan felt the eyes of the guards still upon him, and he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. Three men stood on either side of the main gate, and he knew they had a superior nearby within the walls. They would not stop Lagan, for they knew him as the King's closest friend—some malicious whisperers said his only friend—and knew that Lagan Longhead's access to the King was unlimited, a fact that set him above and apart from all others.

Inside the portal lay a narrow yard, a catchment area some fifteen paces long and six wide, with a guard hut for the duly sergeant directly to the right of the entrance. At the far end, facing Lagan and bristling protectively at his approach, two more guards watched him, unsmiling, their eyes scanning him from head to toe until he had passed between them through a massive pair of hand-hewn, iron- studded doors and into the coolness of the large hall beyond.

Eight men, Lagan was thinking as he blinked in the sudden darkness of the hall. Eight armed Outlander mercenaries to guard the King in his own hall from the advances of his own people. There was something fundamentally wrong in that.

Pausing just inside the door. Lagan allowed his eyes to adjust. A heavy, sour stink of old woodsmoke hung in the air, and thin, eddying wisps of it drifted from the ashes in the massive fireplace in the single stone wall opposite the door. The King's hounds, eight huge, rough-haired beasts the size of small ponies, lay sprawled in the rushes that covered the earthen floor, and only one of them lifted its head to gaze, tongue lolling, at the newcomer. Apart from two more armed guards flanking another doorway in the wall to Lagan's left, the animals were the enormous room's only occupants.

Lagan coughed, his lungs protesting against the reek of the foul, smoky air, and made his way towards the guards as soon as he could see his way between the heavy tables and benches that strewed the floor. When he was within two paces, one of the guards swept his sword from its sheath with a slither and brought the point up threateningly, its tip angled at Lagan's throat. Lagan stopped dead, tilting his chin downward to stare at the sword's tip, then looked into the guard's eyes.

The man was a stranger. Keeping his face utterly expressionless, Lagan moved his eyes slowly to the other guard's face. This one he knew. No one spoke for a space of heartbeats, and then the second man brought up his hand and placed the back of his fingers against his companion's blade, growling something in their own tongue. The first man grunted and remained motionless for a count of four, then straightened slowly and put up his sword, sneering very slightly, his eyes warning Lagan wordlessly that this time he had been lucky, and that the guard would readily have spilled his blood. Lagan made no response. He simply stepped past the fellow as though nothing had happened and reached down for the iron handle to push the door open.

Lot was leaning through an open window, peering out into the yard beyond, and he turned when he heard Lagan enter.

"Ah, there you are," he roared.

Gulrhys Lot came bounding across the room and tried to catch Lagan in a headlock that quickly turned into a mighty hug. Lagan clasped his own arms about the King's shoulders, marvelling, as he did every time, that he had finally grown accustomed to this highly unusual form of greeting. The King was the only man Lagan knew who indulged in this very intimate, personal gesture, a mannerism he had picked up somewhere in Gaul in his boyhood, and the majority of his men, with the exception of his Gaulish mercenaries, were extremely uncomfortable in receiving, let alone returning, the affectionate embrace. To the dour, Celtic mind, such overt demonstrations of friendship smacked of emotional excess, and Lagan had seen many a fearless chieftain and warrior flush with the embarrassment of it.

Now Lot thrust him away and held him at arm's length, gripping his upper arms tightly and peering into Lagan's eyes. His own eyes narrowed. "You're angry about something. What is it?"

Lagan tossed his head, jerking his thumb back towards the doorway behind him. "I'm not angry, Gully, not really, simply annoyed. One of your tame killers out there drew a sword on me when I sought to come in here."

Lot's face darkened immediately. "What? Against you? He threatened you? I'll have the whoreson's head!" He was already moving towards the door, but Lagan grasped him by the sleeve and turned him around.

"For what. Gully? He's new, and he didn't know me. The man on duty with him pulled him off. Besides, the fellow was only doing what he's supposed to do."

"And what's that? Threaten my friends?"

"No, protect your kingly arse against imaginary dangers. I'm dying of thirst. Have you anything to drink here?"

Lot barked a harsh, abrupt laugh and moved immediately towards a table that held several clay pitchers, each covered with a cloth and an array of cups. This room was his personal domain, and he permitted no servants to intrude upon his privacy. The Keeper of the Household had prescribed hours during which his staff could clean and maintain the room, but when the King was present, their absence was ordained.

The walls were of plain stone, but they were hung with weavings of undyed, thick, heavy wool, which Lot's father had believed helped to keep out the winter's chill. The eastern wall was pierced by a Roman-style window, with two arches separated by a central pillar, that opened upon the interior courtyard where the boys trained. Two sets of shutters, exterior and interior, enabled the King to shut out the cold and the outside world whenever he wished. Flanking the window and vented to the courtyard, an open fireplace held a brazier basket made of heavy iron strips, and the floor, save for the area closest to the brazier, was strewn with clean, dried rushes that were changed regularly and often.

The room was sparsely furnished, yet comfortably appointed to Lot's own needs. It contained one deep, stuffed and padded armchair made of softly tanned leather and another, less luxurious but still comfortable chair with a padded, upright back in the form of a classic Roman Stella for a guest. These two chairs faced the fireplace, one on either side. Three other plain, armless wooden chairs were spaced against the walls around the room, and there were two tables, the small one Lot was using now, which always held jugs of mead and wine, and another, longer work table, much larger than its companion, which was set against the rear wall of the room, accompanied by a plain, three-legged stool. That table was where the King spent most of his working day, for Gulrhys Lot took pride in telling everyone that he worked at being King. That was true, Lagan knew, and no exaggeration. But he also knew that Lot enjoyed the sense of power that accrued to him because of his literacy in a time and place where very few could read or write.

Lot read well and wrote a clear, flowing script that always surprised Lagan in its neat and methodical firmness, for it was cleaner and more legible than Lagan's own. The two had learned together as children, their teacher an elderly, crippled Roman scribe who had undertaken to educate both Duke Emrys and his son in return for a roof over his head and the protection that entailed. Lot, stubborn and wilful even then, had refused to learn unless his friend could learn with him, and so Lagan Longhead had been set apart from all his fellows by being taught to read and write.

Glancing at the work table now with all its paraphernalia —quill pens and styluses, ink pots, parchments and papyrus— Lagan noted a scattering of scrolls, several of them rolled but two unfurled and held open by heavy weights. Gulrhys Lot had quickly seen all the advantages of literacy, and nowadays he insisted that his primary advisers knew how to read and write also. Lagan often smiled at that thought, for he believed that there were several among those primary advisers who were as literate as tree stumps, but they were all clever enough to keep more learned men about them, and thus they were able to survive, serving the King and preserving their own privilege.

As Lot was bringing Gaulish wine for both of them, a howl of boyish outrage drifted in through the window, and Lagan crossed to look out to where a cluster of six boys was grouped around a seventh, this one holding his arms tightly clasped around his head and keening at the top of his voice. One of the smaller boys hung back, clutching a heavy dowel of ash wood and looking apprehensive. Off to one side, an elderly, dour-looking warrior stood silently watching, scowling in disapproval. Lagan grunted, smothering a laugh.

"Looks like young Twoey got in a good one on Owen. Is this what you were watching when I came in?" He took the drink the King was holding out to him.

Lot nodded. "Aye. They improve daily, learning the disciplines of fighting intelligently, in spite of their dislike of each other."

"Or perhaps because of it. They are a fractious crew, aren't they?"

Lot did not respond other than to turn away, looking out into the small exercise yard. Lagan winced to himself, thinking that he might have offended the King. Gully was unpredictable when his sons were the subject of discussion. He could criticize them; others could not. This time, however, Lot took no offence.

"Six of them," he grunted. "You would think at least two of them could get along."

"Perhaps it's their mothers' fault," Lagan answered quietly, half turning to where the King stood gazing out and down.

"Perhaps? That's a foolish observation. There's more jealousy among those six bitches than among all my chieftains combined. I ought to banish all of them."

Lagan allowed himself a smile. This, too, was a common theme between them. "You chose them, Sir King," he drawled.

"Chose them be damned. They chose themselves, through pregnancy. They are a herd of cows!"

"The regal concubines . . ."

Lot's head jerked around. "There is sometimes too much of the Roman in you, my friend. You are impertinent, with too much Latin."

"I learned it by your side. Lord Lot, from your own teachers."

"Aye, you did, better than me!" He grunted a laugh and swallowed a mouthful of wine, then looked out into the courtyard again.

Lagan look a sip from his own drink. "You sent for me. What do you need?"

Without looking at him, Lot turned and moved away from the window, crossing directly to the table, where he put down his cup and picked up a rolled scroll and a tubular dispatch case made of toughened hide. He slipped the scroll into the cylinder and then turned and offered it to Lagan.

"I need you to go to Herliss today. Give him this and bring me back his answer as quickly as you can."

Lagan pursed his lips and took the container from the King's hand, hefting the weight of it in his own. "Is my father expecting this? Will he be surprised?"

"No, he is not expecting it. . . not immediately, at any rate. But no, he will not be surprised. Inconvenienced, perhaps, but he is my steward, and this relates to his duties."

Lagan merely nodded. "And why so sudden, Gully? You made no mention of this when we spoke together yesterday."

"There was no thought of it in my head yesterday."

"Am I allowed to ask what it concerns?"

"Aye, of course you are. Sit down, man, sit down. Since when have you needed to stand in my presence?"

Lagan never had, but he knew better than to spoil the mood of the moment by saying so. Gully had little ways about him, and this was one of them: by reminding Lagan that he had no need to stand, he intimated that he had the power to make him stand.

Lagan sank into the chair the King had indicated, and Lot hooked another forward with his foot, settling into it and leaning close.

"There are two matters of great import that your father holds in his stewardship, and both of them are dealt with in this missive. I could not exaggerate their importance, Lagan, even were I so inclined. Suffice to say that only you could carry it for me. There is no one else I could or would trust with such a mission, and you will see why when I tell you that the first of them is treasure. Your father holds great stores in my name. Gold, jewels and weaponry, but chiefly weaponry. I need it now. I believe he has it scattered for safekeeping throughout his strongholds on the coast."

Lagan nodded in agreement. His father had four coastal strongholds, each of them guarding a harbour for Lot's marauding pirate fleets. In return for safe anchorage, the pirates paid him tribute in Lot's name—one full half of the booty they brought back from every voyage. Herliss collected all of it and held in safekeeping for the King.

"Lagan, I believe Uther Pendragon will be back here again with the spring weather, hammering at our gates. The winter has been mild, so spring is almost here." The King was being his most appealing self, his voice deep and low and filled with trusting confidentiality. Lagan waited, saying nothing.

There came a thump at the door behind them, and one half of if swung open, held by the arm of a guard, to admit Lestrun, Lot's most senior adviser. The old man ducked under the extended arm as he shuffled in, then nodded to Lagan, offered the same gesture, perhaps somewhat more deeply, to his King, and proffered a pair of tightly rolled scrolls from beneath his right arm. Lot looked at them contemptuously, and for a moment Lagan thought he would savage the elderly Lestrun for interrupting them, but then he nodded curtly, jerking his head towards the long work table.

"Put them over there with the others."

Lestrun bowed his head but remained where he was, facing the King. "I will, as you say, Lord Lot," he said quietly, almost hissing in the sibilant, lilting tones that were so unmistakably from the northwest of Cambria. "But not before you promise me that you will read them as soon as you are alone. Both are highly important, and a decision must be made today on one of them, at least, if you are to achieve what you have told me must be done."

As the other spoke, the King's face went white with sudden fury. "Curse you, man! Will you have me do your bidding like a threatened boy? Put them down and get out!"

The old man nodded calmly, unimpressed. "I will do so, but not before I have your word. It is your own designs, your own intent, that are at risk, here. Rail at me all you wish, but if I fail to have you do what must be done, you will have my head off in any case."

Lot's nostrils flared, and Lagan wondered, as he had many times before, at the old councillor's utter lack of fear in defying a man who was so notoriously ill to cross. And then, to his astonishment, the King's color disappeared abruptly and he barked a laugh that might have been admiring.

"By the gods, Lestrun, one of these days you will push me too far, and I will regret having killed you after it is done . . . Very well, I promise I will read the blasted things as soon as I am alone again, and I will make my decision immediately upon having done so. Now get out."

The old man bowed, then nodded to Lagan, his face expressionless, before turning to withdraw, and again an unseen guard held the door ajar until he had gone. The sight of a disembodied arm clad in leather armour, stretched across the open doorway, suddenly incensed Lagan intolerably. When the door closed again, he looked at Lot.

"Why do you have these people. Gully? It's hardly as if you need them."

"Who, my advisers?" This was said with a half smile.

"No, damnation, these guards. You don't need guards. To guard against what, your own folk? I had to pass by ten of them between the main entrance and your quarters. Six outside, two in the yard and two right here outside your chamber. Are you expecting to be attacked?"

The King's small smile remained in place, but he did not answer immediately, and the thought occurred to Lagan, not for the first time, that the well-known half-smile concealed far more than it illumined.

"Do you believe I'm expecting to be attacked here in my own house? No, Lagan, no." The smile was full-blown now, the voice that spoke the words mellifluous and confiding. "It is not the man who needs the guards. It is the rank, the title."

Lagan blinked, his brow furrowing. "I don't follow you."

"It's quite simple. I am a King, Lagan. Kings require guards, not to protect them—at least not all the time—but to define them."

"Define them as what. Gully? And to whom? You are as clearly defined in my eyes today as you were when first we became friends two decades and more ago."

"Aye, in your eyes, my friend. In your eyes, I have not changed, and in the name of all the gods at once I swear I have not. But in the eyes of others . . ." A rising intonation made the statement a rhetorical question. "I have changed my station. I am a King, today . . ." He turned suddenly and walked away to perch on the edge of the table that held the drink flagons, his left leg extended and his right knee bent and supported by a foot on the seat of the wooden chair by the table's side. "Sit down there, where I can see your face."

Lagan moved silently and sat facing Lot, squinting slightly against the brightness of the late-winter sunlight that now fell across his face. Lot waited until he was settled, cup in hand, and then continued, leaning forward slightly to rest his elbow on his knee.

"When my father became clan Chief, and as both his fame and his influence grew, he was able to travel beyond these shores, into Gaul at first, and then southward all the way into Iberia. On those journeys—for not all of them were warlike—he encountered Kings among the upstart Burgundians of southern and central Gaul, and even among the incoming Franks, whose holdings fie further afield. And he took note of how such men behaved: how they dressed: how they conducted their lives; and how they governed their peoples.

"It was after he came home from one such voyage, victorious and rich with booty, that he took for himself the title dux, or duke, of Cornwall, and he set out thereafter to live in ducal style. The Romans, who set great store upon such things, were far from stupid. They knew that people see what they are shown. Show people a humble man in rags, and they will treat him as a nothing. Show them that same man dressed up in furs and leather, with warriors at his back, and tell them he is a duke, and they will bow to him and grovel for his favour, though they know not a duke from a cook . . .

"As Duke Emrys, my father demanded and received far more respect and obedience than he had ever known formerly. The duke became much stronger and far more powerful than the man. The duke became a symbol . . . a symbol of his people, of his clan, of his possessions." Lot stopped and gazed down at his right hand, one finger of which wore the heavy ring he used to seal letters and documents. He wiggled his fingers, so that the heavy ring flickered in the light from the window. "This seal is such a symbol. Its boar's head is my mark, my identity. The presence of its imprint on the wax seal of a document is the visible proof to all men that I have approved and authorized the contents." He removed the ring and held up his hand, splaying his fingers. "Take it away from me, however, smash it with a hammer, and until I have another made to replace it, you have deprived me of the ability to express my authority to distant people. Surely you see that?"

Lagan nodded slowly before taking another deliberate sip from his cup.

"Good. Well, a King is another, similar symbol, and a King is greater, stronger, richer than a duke. Duke Emrys, my father, brought prosperity to Cornwall and it flourished under his leadership. Upon his death. I swore to increase my father's successes in every area, and I did so. I renegotiated with the mercenaries he had hired and extended their range of operations. I increased his wealth, and I increased his holdings. Overall, I increased his power my power. My task now is to preserve and defend that power, that prosperity and that leadership, for those who depend on it."

Lot paused, watching his listener keenly.

"Lagan, let me put it plainly and bluntly. Cornwall is now a kingdom, and I am at its head. In all my dealings with others beyond our lands, I must be seen to be a King and to have the strengths and resources of a King. So, when visitors come to our doors, they will be met by guards, whose solemn duty is the guarding of the King. There is no more to it than that." He broke off, frowning. "Now what's wrong?"

Lagan was shaking his head, pursing his lips. "No visitors come here," he said flatly, and for a moment he thought Lot was going to fly into one of his rages. But then the King burst into laughter.

"By the gods, Lagan, you vex me sometimes, but I'm grateful for your thick-headed common sense, nonetheless. You're right, of course. No one comes here to visit. . . not yet, at least. But they will, Lagan, they will, and soon. They will come in swelling numbers to beseech the favours and the mercy of Cornwall."

"The siege engines."

"Aye . . . the siege engines. It's time for Cornwall to grow."

"Hmm. And what about Camulod? That could stunt your growth. Now that Merlyn Britannicus no longer commands in Camulod, Uther Pendragon seems to have the running of its armies, as well as his own. And Pendragon's a hard man, from all I hear of him, and a bad enemy. Harder than his cousin Merlyn ever was.

He'll do everything in his power to make sure you won't grow much beyond Cornwall as long as he's alive."

Lot's eyes filled with fury. "Then that whoreson will not live long! I have designs for him and his maggot breed. When your father brings the wagons from the south, you'll see some changes here. Our men will be better armed than the enemy, and they'll be trained to use those weapons."

Lagan had heard enough, and he had no wish to revisit this debate on weaponry. In his eyes, from all that he had gathered and from the small amount of fighting he had experienced directly in this war, the disciplined cavalry forces marshalled by Camulod were outstripped only by the long, deadly bows and arm-long arrows of Uther Pen- dragon's Cambrian warriors. Those longbows. Lagan was convinced, were the most dangerous weapons in existence, and Cornwall possessed no effective counter to their deadly threat. He moved back to the window only to find that the boys were gone, set free by their tutor, who was alone in the yard now, piling their mock weapons neatly beneath the lean-to where they were stored. He spoke again, hoping to steer Lot away from the discussion of weaponry.

"You said there were two topics in this message. What's the other one?"

"My wife, Ygraine."

Lagan half turned towards the King, looking at him over his shoulder. "What of her? I saw her when I was at my father's place last time, and I thought she was looking well. I told you that, did I not?"

"Did you, by the gods? I don't recall it. And did she send her love to me?"

" I had no opportunity to speak to her. I saw her from afar." He turned completely now, his back to the outer courtyard, and noticed the expression on the King's face for the first time. "What's wrong, Gully?"

Lot sniffed angrily and threw a lock of hair back from his forehead with a toss of his head. "Nothing is wrong, but my wife—my Queen—needs to come back here. I need her to come back here, where I can keep an eye on her."

Lagan was puzzled. "How so, keep an eye on her? What has she been doing?"

"Nothing . . ." Lot's hesitation was short-lived. "It's not her I need to watch, it's her family." Lot almost smiled. "We were speaking of symbols a moment ago. Well, Ygraine is another symbol, the symbol of the alliance between me and her family in Eire."

Lagan nodded, frowning slightly. "As I recall, it wasn't much of a success, that alliance, was it?"

"No, it was not, but I need to keep it alive, now more than ever. You may recall that Ygraine's father, King Athol Mac Iain he calls himself, sent an army against Camulod when first I marched north against them. It was a fiasco. They fell foul of that swine Merlyn, who caught them on the march and butchered them, then sent them home with their tails between their legs. And since then, they have refused to renew hostilities against Camulod, claiming some prince of theirs is held as hostage to their blood oath."

"So why do you think it's worth keeping your alliance alive?"

Lot looked at Lagan and then let his gaze slide beyond him towards the window at Lagan's back.

"Because Athol Mac Iain controls two large fleets of galleys. Transportation that I am going to need one of these days."

"I see. But how has Ygraine suddenly become so important?"

"I—" Lot stopped short, then began again. "Your Uncle Balin is in Eire. Did you know that?" Lagan merely shook his head. He had heard nothing of his father's brother in many months, and they had barely spoken at all since Balin's return to Cornwall. "Well, he is. I sent him there more than a month ago to maintain contact with old Athol. Now he has sent word to me—it came last night—that the old man is taken with a desire to see his daughter and so may visit us this summer."

"Ah, and so you need the Lady Ygraine here, comfortably installed and living as your Queen before he comes. Well, that's understandable."

The King's face was a flinty mask, showing no trace of humour or tolerance. "It pleases me to hear you say so, but the understanding of others matters nothing to me. I find it politic that she should come here now to be with me, so that her overfond father, old and doddering as he may be, will have no reason to withdraw from this alliance on the grounds that I have mistreated his daughter."

Lagan looked his friend squarely in the eye. "But you have. Gully. You can scarcely deny it. Perhaps mistreated is too harsh a word, but you have neglected her." He ignored the cold blankness of Lot's eyes and pressed on. "You may think I'm being too bold, but I believe you have to ask yourself if you really believe you can undo the damage already done to the lady's pride. She must already be resentful, hidden away where she is. She probably feels she has been slighted and ignored for all these months." He paused, meeting the King's angry stare without blinking, speaking eye to eye, friend to friend. "I have never understood why you sent her to live with my father out there in isolation on the coast."

Now Lot smiled, but the effort it cost him was obvious, and the result was more of a grimace than anything else.

"She is a shrew. Lagan, worse than all the other six combined. There can be no peace with her and me beneath the same roof tree. Besides, I have sons enough. She was a price I had to pay to form this alliance— an evil-tempered wife unlit to wield a besom. Now, however, things have changed . . . my needs paramount among them. I will bring her back into my household now for the sake of my kingdom, above all. I will honour her publicly as my Queen and perhaps I'll even sire a get on her . . ." His eyes drifted off again, fixed on some inner space, and then he snapped back to attention. "And speaking of sons, how is yours, the warlike young Cardoc?"

Lagan's face lit up. "Apart from Lydda, he is the greatest delight of my life. Every time I come back home, even if I've only been away for a matter of days, he seems to have grown another hand's breadth taller."

"Aye, and that reminds me, you almost did not come back at all last time, and I had to wait for days to learn of it."

Lagan looked uncomfortable for a few moments, and then smiled and shrugged. "It was not worth mentioning. It was over and done with, and no harm incurred."

The King made a tutting noise between his teeth. "You really must take people with you when you ride away, Lagan. For a man with the name of Longhead, you can be remarkably stupid and stubborn sometimes. I heard about the escapade, but there were no details. What happened?"

Lagan shook his head and shrugged his wide, strong shoulders. "Nothing much, but I was lucky that Docca and his fellows came along when I hey did. I rode too close to a band of louts who were braver and more numerous than I at first suspected. We were exchanging . . . opinions, when Docca arrived."

"Aye. Docca opined that you had killed three of them by the time he reached you."

"Four, but I was glad to see him. I didn't know he was there until one fellow fell away from me with an arrow in his eye. The tussle didn't last long after that. It's amazing how shortened odds can sap some strong men's courage." Lagan turned away and reached for his sword belt and cloak. "I was careless that time, it's true, but it taught me a lesson. Still, I prefer to travel alone, and most of the time I have no trouble." He thrust one arm completely through the loop of his sword belt and allowed the sheathed weapon to dangle while he swung the cape up and over his head to settle comfortably over his shoulders. "And now I should go home and tell my wife I'm going away again. Do you really want me to leave today?"

Lot nodded, his half-smile back in place. "Aye, I do. We have little time now, it appears, and every hour might be precious. Were it not so, I would otherwise leave you to take your own time in going and returning."

"Aye. Well, my father will doubtless have to gather your weapons from his various castles before he can send anything back here, so there will be a wait involved. Will you want me to remain and come back with the wagons, or should I return immediately with word of how long it will take?"

"Well, we must leave that to your father and you, to a degree, at least." The King made a display of deliberating, drumming his fingers reflectively against the back of his chair before continuing. "But if it looks like being less than, say, ten days, then you might wish to remain there to oversee the proceedings and then ride back here with the train. If it looks like taking any longer than that, though, I think you should come back at your earliest opportunity and advise us as to the length of time we will have to wait before the material is in our possession."

"Good, so be it." Lagan quickly buckled his belt about his waist before picking up his cup and draining it, smacking his lips. "I will take my leave of you, then, and go and kiss my wife and son before I take to the road." He swung away and then stopped, clearly considering some idea that had newly occurred to him. "D'you know, I think I might take Cardoc with me. It would do him good to see his grandfather, and the journey will be a relatively safe one, crossing our own territories. Besides, I had promised to take him fishing."

The King's hesitation was so minute that it almost did not happen at all. "Then take him, my friend . . . and the lovely Lydda, too. She will enjoy that as much as the boy. So be it you are sure they will not slow you down. If I need you for anything, it will be unimportant enough to wait another day. Go and take pleasure in your family, but bear in mind that this task on which you ride has a large degree of urgency and import."

The smile faded from Lagan Longhead's face. "Aye," he said. "You're right, as ever. Perhaps it would not be a good idea, after all."

"There will be other times, then. Take them when you return, and you will have as much time as you want, if Camulod has not come round our ears."

"Aye, I'll do that. Farewell, then."

As the door closed behind Lagan Longhead, the smile faded slowly from the King's face to be replaced with a look of pouting, heavy-eyed displeasure. He plucked moodily at his heavy lower lip, frowning thoughtfully at the solid oaken door, and then he rose and made his way slowly to the window, where he placed one hand on the central pillar of the window and leaned through to look out into the empty courtyard. Thunder rumbled far away, and he leaned further forward to look upward, twisting his head and craning his neck to see that the blue sky had vanished, replaced by a thick canopy of dark grey cloud. Gulrhys Lot grunted deep inside his chest, and then turned away, moving directly towards the long work table where Lestrun had placed the two scrolls.

Lagan was deep in thought as he strode from the King's residence, ignoring the guards completely. He was not totally lacking in cynical awareness of the King's ways and moods, and the final little piece of manipulation had not escaped his recognition. He had known even as he spoke the words that he was making a mistake in announcing his desire to take his son with him, but the impulse had been overwhelming, and once begun, he had no way of unsaying it. In consequence, he had known before he finished speaking that he would not be allowed to take the boy. Better to have held his tongue and simply taken the lad, than to have mentioned the possibility of doing so to Lot, because Lot's demands on one's loyalty, as everyone knew, were absolute. He would brook no weakness, no distraction, under any circumstances. He insisted ruthlessly that he be the centre and the only focus of attention, and many a warrior had learned to his cost that he could not marry while the King had need of him. Lagan kicked at a pebble in his path, cursing himself for his enthusiasm and wishing he had kept his mouth tightly closed.

Despite the urgency of Lot's demands and the willingness of everyone involved to fulfill them, it was no small matter for Herliss to amass everything he had been asked to supply and then prepare it for safe delivery. The siege engines, in particular, presented a problem in transportation that almost proved insuperable until one bright fellow had the idea of stripping the wheels and axles from the heavy wagons and attaching them directly to the massive timbers of the devices themselves.

The huge Roman siege engines had never been designed to travel great distances. They were massive, cumbersome affairs constructed for strength, stability and endurance, built with solid wheels to provide them with a degree of mobility but intended in that respect purely for positioning each apparatus and, in the case of the artillery pieces, for altering the field of fire they commanded during battle. They were meant to be manhandled but had never been intended for overland travel.

Duke Emrys had acquired them somehow at the time of the Roman withdrawals from Britain, and knowing their worth, he had taken them into his custody and guarded them against a future need. They had been dismantled carefully, the component pieces clearly marked and numbered for reassembly, but they had been in storage for decades since then, split up for safety among Herliss's four coastal forts. In the intervening years the enormous wagons originally used to transport them had been used for other purposes, scattered and eventually lost. In consequence, Herliss faced an enormous task, and he dared not take the risk of mixing or misplacing the component parts of each device, be it ballista, catapult or storming tower, for the men who would transport and reassemble them had had no training in such things.

The time flew by, so that Lagan quickly found himself on the wrong side of Lot's ten-day division, with yet another two weeks' work to go, according to his father, before all the individual pieces would be ready for moving. He had spent all of his time on the south coast moving among the four forts, and by the time he realized that he would have to return with the unwelcome word of delay to Lot, he had not yet found time to visit Queen Ygraine in his father's home fort of Tir Gwyn some twenty to thirty miles inland.

Reluctantly, without having seen or spoken to the Queen, he bade his father farewell and set out again for Lot's stronghold of Golant, bearing the news that Herliss would be ready to move northwards with his treasures in no less than two weeks. Lot, Lagan knew, would not be happy with the tidings. But then, he reflected, Ygraine the Queen was likely to be even less happy at the prospect of being reunited with her husband. According to Herliss, Queen Ygraine did not hold Gully in high regard.

So busy was Herliss that he barely noticed his son's departure. His mind was too full of logistical concerns to leave time for family matters. He was content, knowing that he would follow Lagan within weeks and would finally be rid of the wearying responsibility for all Lot's stored goods.

As for the Queen, Ygraine, she remained unaware for days that her husband had taken note of her again and summoned her to Golant, or even that Lagan had been in the south. The word of her imminent journey came to her eventually from Herliss, whom she had grown to regard almost as a father. Ygraine listened to what he had to say but made no complaint. She understood all too well that Herliss had no choice but to deliver her upon Lot's instructions, and so she accepted the inevitable. But she could find little in his tidings to look forward to, and so filled was her mind with the unwelcome prospect of being reunited with her estranged spouse that it would never have occurred to her to wonder about her own safety on the journey from Herliss's stronghold to Lot's.

Chapter TWENTY-THREE

The ambush, swift, terrible and thorough, was rendered all the more terrifying by the small amount of blood actually shed. And in the duration of it, within the space of moments, Ygraine's status changed from Queen to hostage. Caught completely unprepared, her escort, strong though it was, had no chance of counterattacking. One moment they were marching in good order through a wide, shallow valley under bright, early-spring sunlight, and the next they were caught squarely between two parallel masses of alien warriors, grim- faced and silent, terrifyingly different from any she had known before. They had literally sprung from the ground on either side of the narrow road, already grouped in attack formations and aiming hundreds of great longbows in massed ranks.

She was amazed, however, at how clearly she was able to see what happened in the momentary chaos that followed. Her escort had already begun to surge into a disciplined but already useless attempt to rally some kind of defensive formation, and in the middle of the protective swirling of her own personal bodyguard, at the time when the first hail of arrows should have been wreaking ruin and havoc amongst her protectors, Ygraine, Queen of Cornwall, daughter of Athol Mac lain of Eire, perceived clearly and unmistakably that someone, for some unknown reason, was withholding death and mass destruction.

Only one group of warriors, under the personal command of Gylmer, her husband's most faithful and hotheaded captain, succeeded in forming a shield phalanx and moving forward to engage the enemy on the sloping hillside above. They had barely left the road, Gylmer on his mountain pony riding in their centre, rallying them, when they were slaughtered, all twenty of them obliterated instantly by a lethal rain of long, deadly arrows, fired with appalling accuracy from the other hillside, behind them. Ygraine heard the missiles hissing overhead, moving from right to left, and spun to look, thus avoiding the actual sight of the death that fell upon her quickest men so suddenly, and she was stunned to see that none but the farthest ranks on the right of the hill behind her had fired, in response to some hidden, but deadly signal. They were already stringing new arrows when she swung back to see what they had done. Not a man of the twenty remained standing. And no single bowman in the ranks facing the slaughtered men seemed to have loosed a shot.

The warning was not lost on anyone, including Herliss, the grizzled veteran commander entrusted by her husband with the task of shepherding his Queen and a valuable train of goods and provisions between two of the royal strongholds that dotted his territory. As Ygraine caught sight of Herliss now, his yet-unhelmed head flung back in outrage and his right hand raised above his head, fist clenched, to rally his forces, she recognized the fury and hopelessness that swept across his face as he slowly lowered his hand.

Herliss, the only remaining mounted man in the train, was stunned by the swiftness of this defeat, by its totality and by his own helplessness. They had sprung from the ground like devils, pouring up out of holes and trenches dug in the soft hillsides on either side of the narrow, rutted road, the only warning of their coming the sudden, shocking sight of rectangular sections of grass- covered ground being lifted up and thrown aside to give them passage. And as they came, they had drawn their bows, arrows already nocked, forming themselves with daunting speed into solid blocks of death: tight, disciplined, inexorable; ranks spaced far enough apart to enable each to fire over the heads of those beneath them; drawn weapons pointed grimly down towards the long train reeling in disorder and panic below. Young Gylmer, as usual, had been the first man to react, kicking his pony forward with a shout and attracting the attention of his men before panic could overwhelm them. But Gylmer had died for his decisiveness, and his men had been struck down with him, destroyed by a response so quick and so complete that every man who saw it knew it had been planned for just such a move.

Now Herliss looked about him, assessing his ruin. Men hung in impossible postures of indecision everywhere he looked, as though frozen in place in the blink of some mad god's eye. Among them, in the very centre of the roadway, the Queen's group of women eddied, as yet too stunned to have begun screaming. Behind him, he could hear wails of panic rising from among the wagon-drivers. Only the Queen's personal bodyguard of Ersemen seemed prepared to match the threat of the massed ranks above. They had formed a circle, their shields a solid wall behind which they now crouched, grim-faced and prepared to die about their lady.

A stillness fell over everything. The voices behind Herliss died away, and in the silence, the men up on the hillside lowered their threatening bows, relaxing the tension in their arms. It was then that Herliss became aware of a truly frightening truth: only half of them had been aiming. As the bows were lowered, the other half were raised, extending the promise of death, and yet withholding its delivery. And still nothing moved on the valley floor.

Herliss drew a deep breath, aware of the Queen's eyes staring at him. He was the King's Commander. Gulrhys Lot would hang and disembowel him for what had already occurred. His sole alternative was to meet death on terms he chose himself, no matter how onesided. He straightened his back and drew his heavy, bronze-bladed sword, bringing up his arm again, as slowly as he had lowered it, expecting to be shot down at every moment.

"No, Herliss! No! I forbid it!" The Queen's voice cut through the silence. "Everyone, hear me! Lay down your weapons."

A few turned their heads towards her, including Herliss.

She spoke again, her voice ringing. "Are you all mad? Can you not see? They have no wish to kill us. If they did, we would be dead! Lay down your weapons." She could see that some of them wanted to believe her, but no one moved to comply with her command.

"The woman's right, Herliss!"

The words came booming from the chest of a giant man who stood some thirty paces away on the hill behind her, and she spun to face him, as did all the others. He wore no helmet, and he had thick, black hair and a full, close-cropped beard that masked his features almost entirely. He was also one of the few on the hillside who carried no bow. His hands were empty, crossed over his chest, the index finger of each one hooked into the armholes of his breastplate, the other fingers spread on the swelling muscles of each arm. He looked completely at his ease. A mustard-yellow, ground-length cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, and his armour was of toughened, layered bull hide, studded with lozenges of black iron. Even from afar, separated from him by the protective circle of her bodyguard, Ygraine could see his bright blue eyes blazing, flashing with either humour or scorn, she could not tell which. As her eyes found him, he spoke again, directly to Herliss, who sat staring from his horse's back, the hand holding his sword still partly raised.

"The women's presence is the only reason you remain alive. Our lord does not make war on women. Throw down your weapons, and you'll live. Otherwise die here, and die quickly."

Herliss rallied himself quickly, finding his voice again and filling it with truculence. "Your lord? These are King Lot's lands. Who is this lord of yours?"

"One far more powerful than yours." The black-haired spokesman's voice betrayed no hint of anything other than arrogant surety. "You have two hundred men trapped here, ten women and a score of puny little bows. We have four hundred longbows pointing down at you. Therefore our lord has more power than yours. Throw down or die. My patience is not endless."

Ygraine felt fingers clutch at her elbow from behind and knew it was her cousin Alasdair Mac Iain, the captain of her bodyguard, but she had eyes only for Herliss now, and she shrugged the fingers away, only to feel them grasp again at her sleeve immediately.

"Herliss, hear me in this," she called, pitching her voice to keep her words from the men above. "You will be of no use to me or to anyone else if you are dead. Do what he says, and what I command. Tell your men to lay down their arms." She watched Herliss debate with himself for long moments, then saw his shoulders slump and knew she had won, but she waited until she saw him pass the order to surrender before she swung back to face her own captain.

"Lady Ygraine—" he began, but she cut him short, hissing with urgency before he could begin his protest.

"Alasdair, be quiet. I know what you will say and I refuse to listen. My father charged you with my life. He will not thank you if you endanger it in this." She forestalled his anguished reaction, silencing him with a stabbing jab of her flattened hand. "They have us, man! What would you do? Fight to protect me and be killed, leaving me prisoner?"

"But we must fight, Ygraine, we have no option! We—"

"You have two options!" Ygraine spat the words at him, trampling his protest underfoot with her own imperatives. "Fight and die, or yield and live. No more! Think what you're saying, man! If we conduct ourselves correctly, we may yet win something here."

The captain gaped at her, his lack of understanding written plain upon his face, so that she made herself speak more slowly, softening her voice against her will but articulating each word precisely. "You heard what that man said, Alasdair. His lord, whoever he may be, does not make war on women. Have you ever heard the like? Perhaps he has a weakness for women's beauty, like my own lord. If he does, we'll use it, and we'll win free of him alive, all of us. These men are disciplined. Ours are warriors, not soldiers. So please, I want you to avoid confrontations with me or with them. Trust me in this. We will not be harmed."

Alasdair Mac lain sucked in a mighty breath and held it as he glared eye to eye with his headstrong cousin. Then he capitulated and swung away towards his men, sheathing his sword and nodding at them to sheathe theirs and lower their shields. They did so with obvious reluctance, glaring defiantly al the enemy who surrounded them on the hillsides.

"Stand down," their captain warned them. "But show these animals no fear. We'll light another day. For the time being, heed the words of the Lady Ygraine, but hold your positions and be prepared to die defending Athol's honour should these heathens prove false."

As her bodyguard obeyed Mac Iain's orders, Ygraine turned to the woman closest to her, a beautiful, tall woman in her mid-twenties, with long, blond tresses spilling from a silken cowl.

"Morgas, call out to Herliss, but quietly. Tell him to dismount and come here, but not to come to me. Call him to you. Then tell that fellow up there on the hill that it is over, though I can see he knows that. Do it now."

The woman called Morgas did not obey immediately. She levelled her lovely blue eyes at the Queen. "Why me, Ygraine?"

Ygraine smiled. "Because, my dear, you are the fairest of my flock, and you shall be the Queen for now, until I have had the opportunity to weigh and judge what has happened here. This lord of theirs might have a sweet tooth for women, who knows? And if he has, he might be malleable thereby. If so, he will delight in you, and should he be the half part noble, so might you in him. Why are you frowning? Do as I say."

"But. . . they already know you are the Queen. They heard you order Herliss not to fight."

The Queen's faced hardened. "No, they heard a woman's voice begging for life. Most of them would have no idea which woman. The shield wall stands between us and Herliss, and he and his group between the wall and the enemy, whose eyes were on the shield wall and the men forming it. If they have looked at us at all since then, they have seen but female shapes, and the promise of lechery to come. We are not yet people to them. Now do my bidding."

Morgas inclined her head, her eyes veiled, and turned to obey.

Ygraine stayed among her women to watch, and as soon as Morgas had carried out her wishes, she saw the black-bearded man raise a horn from his waist and blow two distinct signals at no great volume. In response, his men began to move, half of them slinging their bows across their backs and moving down towards the road, the other half spreading themselves about to cover any eventuality, their vigilance, if anything, increased. Herliss had bidden his own men yield, and now, having thrown down their weapons, they moved together sullenly, forming separate groups, their hands free of weapons, their eyes shifting fearfully as they watched the enemy descending towards them.

The black-bearded giant moved down directly to the Queen and her ladies, passing between two of the warriors of her bodyguard who now stood weaponless. As he approached, Ygraine saw that he was even more impressive than from afar, towering over Alasdair, the tallest of her bodyguard. Herliss had already arrived and been informed of Ygraine's wishes, and now he stood sullenly to Morgas's right, glaring at his conqueror. Watching the big stranger approach, Ygraine was impressed by his comeliness, obscured even as it was by the black beard and by his surprising youth. She estimated his age to be no more than twenty-one or twenty-two; younger than herself or any of her women.

"Which of you is the Queen?" The voice was a deep but strangely gentle growl, the words uttered in a Celtic language strange to Ygraine's Erse ear, but understandable. He ignored the men completely, his eyes moving from face to face among the women. When his gaze met hers, quickening with evident intent to speak to her, she lowered her eyes demurely and turned away, hoping to disarm him. She was surprised at herself: at the strange sensations that were coursing through her; at the heat she could feel rising in her cheeks; and at the compulsion she felt to look back frankly into his blue eyes and speak to him, an unknown stranger and a proven enemy, a brigand and a thief. She closed her eyes, gripping her elbows in her hands, steeling herself, and then, aware somehow that he was no longer looking at her, she opened them again and glanced towards him, noting that every woman in her group was watching him watching Morgas. Ygraine breathed again, feeling relief sweep over her. It was no surprise that he had fastened upon Morgas, but it was gratifying to know that her judgment had been sound. He had dismissed Ygraine, drawn to the brighter blossom.

As he moved towards them, approaching very close to where they stood, Ygraine moved closer to Morgas, almost interposing herself between the two, inclining her head slightly, with an air of submission towards the blond woman. The man loomed over her.

"Lady," he growled, "are you the Queen among these people?"

"I am." Morgas's voice was cold, with no hint of graciousness.

The big man bowed to her, almost brushing Ygraine's breast with his shoulder. Her nostrils flared in anticipation of the smell of him, but instead of the rank odour she had expected, she caught nothing but the mild hint of warm, clean sweat.

"Lady—" He broke off, straightening himself up. "Your pardon. What should I call you?"

"That will suffice." The voice dripped icy disdain.

He nodded. "I am Huw, called Huw Strongarm, captain to Uther, King of Pendragon."

Ygraine felt her spirits falter. Uther Pendragon, the Cambrian King himself, already here in Cornwall and the snow not a week gone! Her people's hopes had all been pinned upon his late arrival after a long, hard winter, but he was here already. Then she frowned, looking anew at the young giant who called himself Huw. He seemed like an unlikely captain for the fabled Pendragon hordes. She had heard many stories, they all had, of the savagery of the Pendragon warriors, and many more of Uther, the chimera they called their King, with his lusts for rapine and slaughter and the torture of innocents. It was common knowledge that the friends he owned equalled the number of the enemies he had met: none lived in either case. His name was anathema to all decent folk, and he and her husband had been fell enemies since boyhood. Gulrhys, she knew, detested him to the bottom of his soul.

Faced with a stony silence, and clearly at a loss because of it, the big man cleared his throat. "My lord has been delayed. He should have come this morning, since he knew that you would pass this way today—"

"How could he know that?" The question, uttered in clipped, sterile tones, came from Morgas.

Huw looked at her and almost, Ygraine thought, began to smile. Instead he frowned and shrugged. "He knew. But we must wait close by here, up in the hills, until he comes. In the meantime there is work to do. We must unload these wagons and distribute their contents among our men."

"God save your sorry wit! You would carry their cargo? On your backs? That bespeaks little brain inside your brawn."

Huw gazed at Morgas for the space of three heartbeats, then raised one eyebrow. "We used our brawn to dig these pits on either side . . . but it was our brains that told us we might do it. Wagons leave broad tracks, lady. Footprints are less obvious and more difficult to follow."

He glanced away from Morgas, looking directly into Ygraine's eyes for a moment, and she lowered her eyes immediately, but not before noticing that again he almost smiled before returning his attention to Morgas. "We built the trap, milady. You entered it."

Morgas bit her lip, bereft of a suitable response.

"Which wagon holds your tents? I'll have my men unload them and your people may bring them separately, so that you will have comforts while you await the King."

"Uther Pendragon is no King, not here in Cornwall! Here, Gulrhys Lot is lord." Morgas was Hushed, with a hectic colour in her cheeks, and her eyes were glittering. She held her head high, attempting to wither this man with her scorn. Ygraine saw her glance briefly in her direction before returning her attention to the big man who stood so close to her. Then Morgas raised her voice, its tone still tight with a tension masked as anger. "Derwyn!"

The man called Derwyn turned to her immediately, and Morgas pointed to him, speaking icily to Huw.

"Derwyn is our steward. He knows where everything is and his people will unload our wagons. He will not require your assistance."

Huw nodded. "No, milady. But I will require my men to assist him, despite that, to watch your people." He looked to Derwyn. "Come."

When the two men were out of hearing and she had looked about to see that they were free from the attention of other strangers, Ygraine addressed those who remained about her.

"Good. That went well. Now, move about and find something to do. The gods know there's enough to be done. But remember, all of you, Morgas is Queen until I say otherwise, so bring her my chair and bring her chair for me." She turned to Morgas. "Walk with me Morgas, but ahead of me, and mind you keep us clear of these people. I have no wish to be overheard. Dillys, walk beside me, behind Morgas."

No one seemed to pay any attention to them as they began to walk, although it was mere moments before Ygraine became aware that their movements were being mirrored by a trio of men on the hillside above, each of whom carried a casually slung bow. These men's eyes remained fixed on the three women, and their duty was obviously to watch and to guard against any attempt at flight. Ygraine ignored them and looked around her to where her own men were being herded into groups and guarded by squads of dour-faced bowmen who stood above them on the flanks of the hill, each squad focused upon one group of disarmed Cornishmen. Her own bodyguard stood closest to where they walked, huddled dejectedly and yet somehow defiantly in a single group, stripped of all weaponry. Ygraine nodded silently to Alasdair as she passed them, and then she waited until she and Morgas had gained an open stretch of road before speaking.

"You find that Huw attractive. Keep your wits about you. You're my bait, but for the monster Uther, not his lackey."

Morgas swung to look at her, wide-eyed. "What are you talking about? The man's a pig."

Ygraine jerked up one hand to forestall her companion's response. "Please, Morgas! The man's attractive—no denying that—but he is unimportant. Just remember who you are supposed to be, for now at least, and why. We have a bigger prize than Huw Strongarm.

"At best we might be held for ransom. Only our presence, if we can believe what we are told, has saved our men from being slaughtered as quickly as were Gylmer and his group. Their lord does not make war on women. Faugh! Uther Pendragon, the man whose name is used to frighten children? Better to be tortured by the alien Saxons than well treated by such as these, Morgas. These are our deadly enemies. They come to kill us all! They come in war, to rape and steal and kill and burn and devastate our homes, to hang and mutilate our children!"

Morgas, however, was no longer listening. Her eyes, which had been fixed on Ygraine's lips when she began to speak, had filled with anger and then swung away, across the Queen's shoulder. But there they had focused and grown keen. Ygraine frowned, and then turned to see what had distracted her.

A party of nine men had ridden into view over the brow of the hill above and were now descending towards the activity in the valley below. All were mounted on huge horses, but four of these men looked enormous, almost godlike, their apparent height increased by the great, crested helmets that they wore. The remaining five were less impressive, bare-headed and wearing no armour, but nonetheless richly dressed in heavy, beautifully coloured clothing that proclaimed wealth and privilege. Their route took them diagonally across the view of the three women, oblivious to their presence, and the women watched them ride by, noting the heavy armour that the warriors wore and the metal greaves that clad their legs above their booted feet, thrust into long stirrups, which the women had never seen or heard of before.

Morgas was round-eyed. "Romans," she whispered, gazing at their backs.

"No, I think not, not Romans." The Queen's voice was filled with scorn, but her companion did not notice.

"Aren't they huge! I thought the other one, Huw, was big, but these are giants."

"No, they're big, but their armour makes them seem bigger."

"Not the leader. He's bigger than all of them." Morgas turned to look at Ygraine, belatedly aware of the Queen's strange tone. "What are they, then, if they're not Romans? Those are Roman helmets."

"Aye, but those swine are Celts, like us. There have been no Romans in Britain since before we were born. Those are Pendragon, Morgas, and the leader, the one in the red cloak with the golden dragon and the gilded armour, is Uther, their King, or I miss my guess." Ygraine turned to look at Morgas, straight-faced. "Our captor. Your new lover . . . if he's human, which I doubt. Come, we had best be getting back."

Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

Huw Strongarm heard the silence that fell as Uther Pendragon came into view over the crest of the hill. Huw had been talking to two of his senior captains, instructing them on their duties as guardians and captors of the Queen and her train of women, and as soon as the noise above him on the hillside diminished suddenly, then began to die away completely, he knew the cause and dismissed his officers with an abrupt nod. Watching them walk away then and seeing how they glanced up over their shoulders to where Uther would be approaching, Huw allowed himself a smile, finding himself moved yet again to wonder at the respectful awe Uther Pendragon unfailingly inspired in his fierce followers.

Huw had once thought, briefly, that this widespread fascination, close to reverence, was based upon fear, but for years now he had known better. The plain truth was that Uther Pendragon was heroic, a larger-than-life figure of epic energies, courage and enthusiasm, and his warriors revered him as something they themselves could never be. Exactly what that something was, however, Huw had found more than difficult to define. He had tried to identify it many times, only to give up at last and simply accept it as part of the enigma that was Uther, his friend and commander, Chief and King.

Huw continued to stand with his back to the newcomers, determined not to turn around while knowing that he might well be the only person there who did not. He allowed himself one last look around the scene of his recent success. Two enormous piles of weapons lay to his right, where they had been discarded by the men disarming the captured Cornish warriors. They had been thrown haphazardly, tossed aside disdainfully by the men who stripped them from their former owners before herding those owners away like cattle to be held under close guard. Now, each pile of weapons was being sorted by a detachment of Huw's Cambrians. The best of the pickings would be kept as spoils of war, the remainder taken away, buried and left to rust.

Even the men who had been sorting through the weapons now stood motionless, watching their leader approach from above, and Huw's eyes moved beyond them to where a smaller group of prisoners also stood staring up the hill: the Cornish leader, Herliss, and his twelve senior officers, with Herliss himself standing as far apart from the others as his guards would allow. Huw smiled again as he realized how far removed these men were from anything that Uther's Camulod-trained Cambrians would recognize as an officer. He looked then towards the women of the Queen's party, noting that the Queen herself and the two companions with whom she had walked apart were now returning to join the others. A glance up the hill in front of him revealed that Owain of the Caves had been keeping pace with the Queen, as Huw's instructions had specified.

Satisfied that all was as it should be. Huw finally allowed himself to turn around and look to where Uther was approaching, close enough now for the sounds of the horses' hooves and creaking saddlery to be audible. He took two steps forward and stood erect, facing his commander directly and waiting to be recognized.

Uther headed straight towards Huw until he towered over him, looking down from his tall horse and reining it to a halt.

"Huw," he said, nodding, so that the plume on his high helmet dipped visibly. "Everything appears to be well in hand. You had no trouble?"

"No, Commander, everything went as planned. One flight of arrows finished it. When they saw what had happened to their best and swiftest—all cut down and dead within one breath—they lost any thoughts they might have held of resistance. They saw what our bows can do, and they believed."

"How many prisoners?"

"One hundred seventy, all told."

"By the Christian Christ, Huw! What are we supposed to do with two hundred prisoners? That's the last thing I needed." Uther turned his head very slightly to the left and gazed towards the huddle of women without making it apparent that he was looking at them. 'Tell me about the women. There was nothing of women in our report."

Huw frowned and shrugged his shoulders. "A last moment addition, from what I can gather. They were all under cover in the wagons, sheltering from the rain, so we had no idea they were there until we showed ourselves. None of them was harmed."

"I can see that, but who are they?"

"One of them is Lot's Queen. The others are her ladies."

Even beneath the coverings of heavy cloak and armour, Huw saw Uther's entire body stiffen in shock, and it was several moments before the King spoke again.

"Lot's Queen"? Ygraine? No, that can't be right."

"I don't know her name, but she's the Queen." Huw's voice was resolute. "I spoke with her. I asked which of them was the Queen, and she answered me."

Uther reached up and flipped his helmet's cheek-guards up so that they framed his helmet's cask like wings or horns, allowing him to peer down at Huw. "But how did you know? You didn't know there were women with the train, so how could you have known one of them was the Queen?"

Huw nodded, his face solemn. "They made it obvious, the moment we launched our attack. The common soldiery. Lot's men, were caught flat-footed, as we expected, but the others—the group over there, behind my right shoulder—showed themselves to be of a different mettle altogether. They threw a defensive ring around the women instantly, a wall of shields. They were ready to die, then and there, protecting those women . . . or one of them. As soon as I saw them move and form up, and the way they held themselves, I knew they were either an honour guard or a blood guard of some kind." He shrugged. "I don't know who they are or where they came from, but they're fighters, and not one of them wears the crest or the trappings of Gulrhys Lot. My guess is they're all mercenaries, garrison troopers from the private army of some powerful warlord. The others, all of them, wear Lot's dung-coloured trappings."

Uther scratched his nose gently with the tip of his middle finger, his cupped palm masking his mouth as though to cover a smile. "And which one is the Queen? Don't look at them!"

Huw checked himself, on the point of turning to indicate the woman. "The tall, fair one in the yellow robe."

Uther lowered his cheek-flaps back into place again, enclosing his face. "How is her temper?"

"Icy, but what would you expect? She has no love of Pendragon, especially you. She looks on you, above all, with less than favour."

Uther cocked his head, his helmet's crest dipping noticeably to one side. "Are you being insubordinate, young Strongarm?"

"Me, Commander? How could you even think such a thing?" Even beneath the covering flaps of the war helm, Huw thought he could discern Uther's teeth flashing in a grin, but he schooled his face to remain blank. "Her eyes almost fell from her head when she heard your name, Commander, and I thought she might puke."

Now Uther did laugh, a short, deep bark. "Aye, she had probably been told I would not arrive here in Cornwall until next month at the soonest. But you allowed her to walk apart unguarded. Why?"

"Not so." Huw's head shake was barely visible. "She's been under constant guard. Owain of the Caves has been watching her every move, from up there on the hill. Had she tried anything, he would have stopped her quickly enough. Shall I bring her to you?"

"No, not yet. You did well here, Strongarm. Are there any signs of other military activity in the area?"

"None. I've had scouts out ranging for twenty miles in every direction since we arrived here yesterday. Nothing moving anywhere, except this group."

"Good." Uther braced himself, straight-armed, in the saddle, one hand on the front and the other on the rear, lifting his armoured body clear of the seat and turning himself from side to side to look about him again. Then, satisfied that he had seen everything there was to see, he lowered himself back into the saddle and smiled once more at Huw. "Now tell me about the train. What's in the wagons?"

"I have no idea, Commander. Haven't had time to look. We only took them less than an hour ago, and since then we've been organizing the prisoners. As soon as that was done, I had thought to have the wagons unloaded and then burned. No point in leaving them for Lot to reclaim."

"Good. How many wagons?"

"Twenty-four, not counting the four that held the women and their goods. A rich haul."

Uther dipped his head sideways. "A large one, at least. Whether it's rich or not is something we'll find out later." He straightened his legs again and gripped the saddle horn, pulling himself upright so that he stood in his stirrups, then reached up to grip the metal housing of the high red horsehair crest that surmounted his helmet and used it to press the heavy cask down onto his head. When he was satisfied with the way it felt, he turned his head and looked about him one more time. The three officers and five unarmoured men who had accompanied him all sat their horses quietly, waiting patiently. Huw saw no sign of Uther's gaze pausing or taking note of the Cornish leadership, but when the King's eyes returned to his own, Huw was unsurprised at the first question.

"What's his name, the leader over there?"

"Herliss. That's all I know."

"Herliss! Is it, by all the gods? Then we have won a prize, whether the woman be Lot's Queen or no. I know this Herliss, or I know some relatives of his at least, and I've heard much about him. He is one of Lot's best . . . certainly one of his most experienced, since he served the old Duke Emrys before Lot's time. Herliss is a real warrior, unlike his King. But then, I'd expect no less of the man set to guard Lot's Queen, if that is who she is. I fear his master will be less than pleased with his success. Have one of your men bring him over here, Huw, but not yet. Now, the other group of prisoners on the left there, the Queen's guard, who commands them? Have you isolated him?"

"No, Commander, I have not. As long as we hold the Queen close, they should give us no trouble, and if we split them, we might regret it. And so I left them with their leader. Was I wrong?"

"I don't know, Huw. That might depend upon how good a leader he is. But if you were wrong I have no doubt we'll hear of it. Very well, then, let's move on. I think I might best remain mounted for the time being, looking down on lesser mortals from up here. Have someone bring Herliss to me, and start your men unloading the wagons." Uther turned in his saddle to one of the well-dressed civilians behind him. "Samson, you read and write. Organize the unloading and make some kind of list of what we have here. I have no need of accurate amounts for now, but I would like to know the substance of what we will all be carrying up into the hills. We may wish to bury some of it somewhere and return for it later. See to it, would you?"

The man called Samson nodded and swung himself down from his saddle immediately, where he detached a leather satchel that hung from his saddle horn. Then, grasping the bag tightly, he nodded to Huw and fell in behind him as the big Celt walked away. Uther watched them go and then turned to the man closest to him on his right.

"There's no work for you here, Quinto, and I confess that concerns me. What am I to do with two hundred prisoners? I expected at least some of them to fight . . . and therefore die. And you would think that, with their Queen among them, they'd have made some effort to defend her life, if not her honour."

The man to whom Uther spoke was Mucius Quinto, a veteran surgeon in the forces of the Colony of Camulod, trained in the Roman Army Corps of Surgeons, and one of the small group of surviving officers who had served in Rome's legions with the Legate Picus Britannicus. Second in rank to his friend Lucanus, Mucius Quinto held the responsibility for the medical welfare of Camulod's entire populace, military and civil. For this campaign in Cornwall. Quinto had been seconded to accompany Uther's army and see to the physical and medical welfare of its personnel.

Now Quinto nodded towards the score of corpses laid out neatly in a row alongside the road.

"Some of them did attempt to fight, but apparently they spilt no blood other than their own."

"Aye, but not enough, Mucius, not enough of either: too few corpses, too little blood." Uther's gaze moved from the small pile of dead men towards the press of prisoners. "What in the name of all the gods are we to do with all these people? Can't simply kill them all out of hand, can we? That would really give the people around here a tale to frighten their children with. Uther the man- eater . . . I can hear the outraged screams already. What would Cousin Merlyn do now, think you, if he were here?"

"Probably much the same as you will do," Mucius Quinto replied, permitting himself a small smile. "Disarm them, tie them together like chains of slaves, keep them terrified for a time in the sure expectation of death, then leave them behind, somewhere distant, to free themselves."

Uther Pendragon sucked air through his teeth and quieted his horse, which had shied nervously at a fly bite. "Free themselves to do what, return home? To face Lot's mercy after having lost his wife? Would you go home to that?"

Quinto's negation was slow and measured, a deliberate head shake. "No, Commander Uther, I would not, if even half of the things we hear of Lot's nature are true. But then, I am from Camulod, and I'm no warrior." He turned to glance towards the group of mounted men at their backs, four of whom were members of his medical staff. None of them appeared to be paying any attention to what he and Uther were saying. Mucius Quinto shrugged and turned back to Uther. "From these people, you need fear nothing more. Away from Lot, they'll not carry arms against Camulod or Cambria again."

"That's true, we might have cut Lot's forces here permanently by two hundred men. Now, look me straight In the eye, Mucius, and you others, pay attention." He waited briefly until he was sure all of his small, mounted party was listening to him. "I want none of you to look at him, but there is a man approaching us now who has reason to know how merciful King Lot can be when he is displeased. Don't look at him if you value my friendship. We don't want him to think we find him worthy of our notice, for if he does, he will surely start to act as though he were. Now here is what I wish you to hear, so listen carefully.

"I have no idea of what this man and I might say to each other, but he is a man of power, and close to Gulrhys Lot. If I should find that I have things to say to him for his ears only, I will raise my right hand, like this . . . The moment I do so, I want you all to turn and ride away, leaving us alone to talk without fear of being overheard." He turned his head quickly, catching the eye of one of the two remaining uniformed officers beside him. "Believe me, Philip, I will be in no danger. Now, watch me closely. Everything will depend on how I feel in my gut about this man."

Herliss approached the command group slowly, flanked by two guards with drawn swords, and he held his head high as he glowered up at the mounted newcomers. He had watched them arrive and had seen the fellow Huw receive his orders, after which, summoning two of his troopers, the big warrior had come straight to where Herliss stood. He had paused along the way only long enough to issue orders of his own to one of his subordinates, who had then moved away immediately, evidently full of purpose, thrusting his head and one shoulder through his long, strung bow so that the stave hung down his back, summoning others as he went. Already Herliss could see a gathering process among and around his train of wagons.

Huw had said nothing to Herliss when he reached him. He had merely stood silently as his men flanked the enemy commander, one on either side, and indicated that he should accompany them. They had not laid hands on Herliss, but one of them, waving his drawn sword gently towards the distant group of horsemen, had made it plain that they wanted him to start moving in that direction. Herliss had not allowed his face to betray any hint of what he was thinking or how he felt. He had merely begun walking, holding his head high and resisting the urge to look down at the rough, uneven ground beneath his feet. Better to trip on a tussock of grass and fall, he thought, than to walk with a bent head and appear dejected and beaten.

Herliss kept his unbroken gaze fastened on the big leader mounted on the enormous horse. This must be Uther Pendragon, he knew. He had seen the man's eye light upon him once, briefly, and then move on, ignoring him. He had thought that the fellow had said something to the fat, older man sitting the horse next to his, but the big man's face was shadowed in the recesses of the ornate Roman helmet he wore, and so Herliss could not be sure, and none of the men in the mounted group even glanced in his direction as he approached.

Only when Herliss had come to a halt and was gazing up defiantly at Uther did the Pendragon leader turn his head to look down at him, and then he brought his great horse around, sidestepping delicately, until he was gazing down at the Cornishman from directly over the animal's head between its ears. Thereafter, he sat motionless for a time, his face shadowed in the recesses of his helmet, but his eyes gleaming as he stared down at the enemy leader.

Herliss was an enormous man, although lacking the commanding height of Uther Pendragon. His wide, heavily muscled shoulders were more than three times as broad as the width of his head, and the tight-skinned planes of his face looked as though they had been shaped from slabs of clay. His great, pale-brown eyes were almost feminine in their size, but there was no hint of femininity or weakness in the way they blazed from the deep recesses beneath the massive height and breadth of his forehead. A thick band of rich yellow cloth, woven with gold wire, encircled his brow, and above it his hair was light brown and thick, with only a hint of silvering, in spite of his nearly sixty years. Two long braids hung over his shoulders and down onto his breast, interwoven and tied with ribbons of the same gold-laced cloth that bound his brow. The nose that dominated his craggy, rugged face was wide and cruel-looking, broken at some time in the far distant past. A full moustache, but no beard, finished the face off, emphasizing the deep-channelled grooves that swept down from the broad nose to bracket his wide, tight-lipped mouth on either side.

Uther had no illusions about the calibre of the man who faced him. The fierce face would have proclaimed its owner a nobleman and a warrior, but his clothing, too, drew attention to the man's singularity. His garments were rich, with the lushness that bespoke wealth, privilege and ease of access to the far-from-ordinary. Lacking only a helmet, Herliss wore armour that was almost as Roman-looking as Uther's own, consisting of a breastplate made from overlapping layers of heavy, toughened bull hide and studded with metal lozenges, and a skirt of overlapping straps of the same thick leather that hung from his waist and protected his groin and thighs, its panels also strengthened with the same kind of metal plates, pierced at the corners and sewn to the leather straps with iron wire. Thick, heavy greaves, shaped to the length and contours of his lower legs, completed his armour and fitted snugly over the tops of heavy, Roman military boots. A thick cloak of equally rich, deep- red wool, edged with deep-piled fur, hung down his back from his shoulders, secured across his chest by a chain of wide, heavy silver links and held back by his bound arms.

Uther waited in silence until he was sure that his adversary would say nothing before being addressed, and then, just ahead of the point at which the silence might have become a battle of wills, he nodded his head once and spoke in Latin, knowing well from his long talks with Balin that his brother Herliss was proficient in the tongue.

"Herliss, I have heard much about you. I wish we had met under better conditions."

Herliss said nothing, but his nostrils flared and he raised one eyebrow high in disdain. Uther ignored the look.

"I am Uther Pendragon."

"I know who you are." The voice was a deep, leonine growl, the Latin flawless and fluent. "The Trickster."

Uther frowned, then blinked, his body inclining slightly forward. "The what? What did you call me?"

"The Trickster. Why not? It is your name. You would deny it?"

"You have me confused with someone else. I am no trickster, nor am I known as such."

Herliss sucked in his cheeks as though he might spit, but then he merely swallowed what was in his mouth.

"Why lie about it when the whole world knows you for what you are? Do not treat me as you would one of your own fools. Did you not spirit a woman out of a locked and guarded room, and was it not witnessed by a multitude?"

Uther had stiffened in anger as Herliss began this response, but before it was done he had slumped back in his saddle, and now he threw back his head and laughed aloud, tugging his horse's head down with one hand, so that the great beast snuffled and stamped in protest.

"Ah, Herliss, now I understand your error, even though you do not. Time and distance can warp even the truth of truth, it seems. It was my cousin, Merlyn Britannicus of Camulod, who dreamed up that escapade and made it happen, earning the reputation you now attribute to me. Merlyn's your Trickster, not I. And he became the Trickster simply by being cleverer by far than anyone and everyone else who dealt with him, including myself."

Uther drew himself up until he was sitting arrow-straight, and at the same time he raised his hand in the prearranged signal. Behind him, immediately, he heard the sounds of movement as his people began to pull away, leaving him alone with Herliss in a circle of men who watched, but were too far away to hear what was being said. He watched Herliss's eyes narrow as the Cornish leader tried to understand what was happening, and then recaptured the veteran's attention with a question.

"Where did you learn to speak the Roman tongue? You speak it very well."

"I should. I learned it among the Romans years ago." Herliss was frowning, plainly wondering about the sudden, unexpected departure of Uther's escorting party. "Where are they going and why?"

"They moved away because I told them I might want to talk to you without being overheard. You saw me give the signal. They obeyed it. There's no trickery involved."

"Mayhap not, but you are a trickster, nonetheless. You won this victory here by trickery."

"Aye, perhaps I did. but trickery is legitimate in warfare, and I know you know that well. From what I have heard, you have been famed for your own deceits at times. Besides, your point is moot. All I did in this instance was set a trap. You were the one who walked into it in the full light of day. No trickery involved there, Herliss. Carelessness, perhaps. Negligence . . . one might perhaps propose an argument in favour of such a thing. But trickery? No, not on my part. Had your scouts paid attention and scouted properly, they would have found us, or at worst found signs of our preparations. We had hundreds of men concealed in these pits, Herliss . . . impossible to hide so many without trace. But your people found nothing, and that was mainly because they did not look closely, or closely enough."

Faced with such incontrovertible logic, Herliss could make no response, but Uther spoke right on through the silence that ensued.

"I know your brother, Balin, and his wife, Mairidh. We have been friends for years, the three of us. I like them both immensely." He waited briefly for a response and received none.

"Your son, Lagan," he continued. "Is he yet well? I never met him, but years ago your brother used the story of Lagan, his favourite nephew, to convince me that my overwhelming hatred of all things Cornish was foolish and ill advised, and so I have grown to manhood with the strange feeling that I have a friend whom I have never met among your people." He paused, his eyes fixed on his enemy, and then continued.

"I can see you are confused and taken aback by hearing things you might never have expected to hear, so I'll ask no more of you for now than this: try to contain yourself in patience for a while and to accept the restraints I will put upon you as my prisoner. Were I to set you free now and alone, your life would not continue long once Lot had heard of your survival at the cost of his Queen's freedom. In holding you, therefore, I merely hold your life in safekeeping. If your Queen is to continue living, be it in freedom or in servitude, then she will need someone—some man, strong and used to authority—in whom she can confide and in whom she can place her trust with confidence. You will be that man. So be it you offer no trouble to the men I set to guarding you, your conditions of confinement shall be light and in no way onerous. I promise you this, however: cross me in this, and I will have you trussed like a captive cockerel bound for the stewpot." He stopped and gazed at the older man. "Will you consent to this?"

Herliss pursed his lips and nodded briefly. "Aye, I will, so be it you do not ill-treat my men."

"Their treatment depends upon their own behaviour. Good will beget good, ill, ill." Uther glanced towards the senior of the two men who had brought up the prisoner and waved him forward. "Take the Lord Herliss back to the others, but when we stop tonight to make camp, keep him apart and see to it that he is well fed and well quartered."

He glanced once more at Herliss and nodded in dismissal before hauling on his horse's reins and straightening his back, standing up in his stirrups again to look about him. He saw immediately that Huw Strongarm was returning, walking quickly and intently. Uther sat silent and waited for Huw to reach him, knowing that the only thing that could have caused such a precipitate return on Huw's part was the nature of the wagons' contents. When Huw arrived, he paused for a moment to gather his breath, and Uther forestalled him.

"What have we captured? Weapons?"

Huw jerked his head in a nod. "Aye," he said. "Weapons of a kind, anyway. Great balks of timber, grey and well seasoned, huge wheel sections and miles of hempen rope. You had better come and look, see for yourself."

Less than an hour later, his inspections of the wagons complete, Uther, still mounted, sat waiting once again for Herliss to be brought to him, but this time, when the veteran commander arrived, Uther wasted no time on pleasantries and gave the grizzled Cornishman no chance to speak until he had spoken his mind.

"Siege engines," he began, an edge of incredulity in his voice. "You are carrying siege engines? Where would Gulrhys Lot find such things? And why would he want them? No one has had any use for those things here in Britain since the Romans left almost thirty years ago, and even they used no siege engines in Britain for a hundred years before that." He did not wait for Herliss to respond. "But if Lot is moving them, taking the trouble to shift them, then he is thinking of employing them, so where? He can't have need of them here in Cornwall. The fortifications here are primitive- hill forts, all of them, even his own Golant. Excellent strongholds and highly defensible, but steep slopes and deep ditches, Herliss. No stone walls or towers. Hill forts can be invested, encircled and cut off and then starved out over time, but they cannot be taken by artillery or siege engines. Primitive they may be, but they're also nigh on impregnable and impervious to every weapon except time, thirst and starvation." He paused and looked hard at Herliss. "The only exception that I know about in all this land of Cornwall is your own place, Tir Gwyn, the White Fort. Balin told me it is strongly fortified, high on a defensible ridge with great, glistening walls of snow-white, glassy stone that blazes in the sun, visible for miles. Lot could besiege your Tir Gwyn and probably take it from you if he lusted for it. But why, then, would you be taking him the means to do that to you? That makes no sense at all . . .

"The only thing that does make any kind of sense to me is that your lord is dreaming of attacking us again in Camulod, carrying the war into our bourne yet again, hoping to force us to recall our armies from Cornwall and keep them immured thereafter in our own lands, away from his and yours. But who would undertake that task? Not Lot himself, that much is certain. He hasn't got the guts or the balls to try a thing like that, where he might get hurt. Twice now, he has sent armies up to our lands in treachery, killing, looting and marauding without any provocation, and on each occasion his people died swearing that he was there with them. When it was over, however, and the remnants of his armies had been sent running for their sorry lives, it transpired each time that the mighty monarch, King in Cornwall, had elected not to accompany his armies after all and had remained safe at home."

Herliss stood silent, making no attempt to speak.

"Those two incursions into our lands have cost me dearly. Gulrhys Lot will someday pay the price to me in person, and he will pay in blood. The first attack, led by two foul, sorcerous creatures, both of whom lie dead in Camulod, cost me a favourite uncle and a lifetime friend, dead by envenomed arrows. The second, less than a year ago as you well know, cost me my dear cousin, Merlyn Britannicus, still alive in body but dead inside, his wits driven from him by a blow to the head.

"I learned long ago that Lot has no stomach at all for fighting personally. He would never dare come into Camulod in person. He would far rather send a warring group of underlings to squabble endlessly and achieve nothing, as they did the last time, than put himself in any danger. And that, Herliss, is why I am here in Cornwall. I have no interest in laying your land waste, but I will tear the heavens and all of earth apart to reach that foul toad's guts and rip them out of his stinking carcass while he still has eyes to watch me do it."

Now he swung his eyes to meet Herliss's gaze head on. "So, if he plans to march on Camulod again, with siege engines this time, he will send an underling. But it must be an underling who understands the principles of siege warfare. You?"

Herliss shrugged his enormous shoulders. "Not I, not now. Besides, I know nothing about fighting that way. I fight with my hands."

"Yes, quite. Who, then ? Would you tell me if you knew?"

"No. Is it important ?"

Uther grinned—a small, tight, ferocious snarl—and shook his head. "No, it is not. Not now and not ever, now that I have the engines. Where did they come from?"

"From my own holdings. I had them stored in several of my places along the south coast. They belonged to Lot's father, the Duke Emrys, and he obtained them openly years and years ago from the Roman garrisons along the Saxon Shore in the far southeast, while the coastal routes were still open. On the death of the old Duke, they passed into the nominal possession of King Lot under my continuing guardianship. He has always known they were there, and recently he asked me about them and made arrangements to have me bring them to him. He made no mention of where he would use them, and none of my being put in charge of them after they were in his hands."

"Just as well, because he'll never use them now." Uther turned to a mounted trooper who sat close behind his right shoulder, and then he stopped, plainly on the point of issuing an order. Instead, he turned slowly back towards Herliss. "Wait you, though. You were on your way to Lot to deliver the siege engines, is that not so?"

Herliss nodded, plainly considering the answer obvious.

"Then whence came Lot's Queen? Was she with you in the south?"

Herliss felt his face flush red, but all he could do was curse himself for a fool and nod abruptly in an attempt to brush this off as unimportant. Already, however, he knew his face had betrayed him.

"Aye," he growled. "She was staying with me, as my guest in Tir Gwyn."

"Your . . . guest."

"Aye, my guest. You find that strange? My youngest wife and she are good friends, close."

"I see. And how long had she been there? I promise you I shall find out the truth, so don't start lying to me now, Herliss."

The other man shrugged and looked away, mumbling an inaudible response.

"Your pardon, I missed that. What did you say?"

"I said she had been with us for some months."

"I see. Then she must be pining for her husband, and he for her by this time."

"Aye, mayhap she must."

Uther turned back to the trooper. "Nemo, go straight to Huw. Tell him to burn everything in the wagons except food and any portable equipment we can use easily. Tell him to burn the wagons, too, and not to fret about the smoke being seen. If anyone comes looking for the source of all the smoke, we'll give them far more to worry about than a mere fire. Go."

As the trooper wheeled away, Uther nodded again to Herliss. "My thanks for being honest, although there was nothing else you might have done. You may return to your men."

He glanced at Herliss's escort and waved them on with a tiny gesture of his fingers. And then, as they moved away, he tapped the pad of his index finger against his pursed lips, making small, sibilant kissing noises as he thought about what had happened and what remained to be done. Finally he reined his horse around and kicked it into motion.

Uther rode until he reached a blazing cook fire, where several of his party had dismounted and tethered their horses as they waited to be fed. Uther climbed down for the first time since mounting his horse that morning, some six hours earlier, and moved to pick up a broken loaf of hard-crusted bread, ripping off a large piece and taking a great bite of it. By the time he had chewed it for long enough to moisten it. Huw Strongarm had reached his side again, and Uther looked at him with one eyebrow raised.

"Is there something amiss?"

"No, everything's in hand. I simply wanted a drink of water."

"Good. Drink, and take something to eat. Then, as soon as the fires are blazing too fiercely to be put out, let's get everyone on the move and up into the safety of the hills. You know what to do—have the prisoners' wrists tied behind them, then string them all together by the neck in single file like slaves. Let them think they're all going to die, but don't let any of our people abuse them unnecessarily. We'll let them go eventually, once Lot and his people know exactly where and who we are. By that time, they'll no longer be a threat to us, since everyone will know our whereabouts. In the meantime, keep them under close guard. Who did you leave in charge of firing the wagons?"

Huw grunted and spoke around a mouthful of half-chewed bread. "Hard-Nose."

"Good." Uther took off his heavy helmet and placed it carefully beside him before he lowered himself and stretched out full length on the ground close to where the horses were tethered. "Half an hour. Wake me when we're almost ready to go."

He was asleep in moments.

Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

Ygraine had no words to describe what she saw among the enemy forces that day. She watched with horror as the Camulodians, with organized efficiency, set fire to the wagons and their contents and then quit the scene of the ambush, with its blazing beacons and towering pillars of black, roiling smoke. They wasted no time in clearing the area, their mounted troopers serving as guards for the long lines of prisoners who were strung together, neck to neck, twenty-live men to a file, and then almost literally dragged behind trotting horses.

Untroubled by any responsibility for the prisoners, the long- legged bowmen moved away quickly too, in large, lightly organized groups, travelling on foot and maintaining regular formations. From where she sat watching them, Ygraine marvelled at how quickly they swept upwards and away, in connected bodies, rank and file, until from a distance they appeared to move across the hillsides like cloud shadows, their bows and quivers slung across their shoulders to leave their hands free for climbing. It was clear to her that they were moving well away in anticipation of reprisals and pursuit, but she could have told them that they had no reason for concern. There was no body of Cornish troops close enough even to see the enormous towers of smoke that marked the place, and it would be many days before Lot took the time to notice that Herliss was late in arriving. But of course, she said nothing.

Ygraine and her women, each riding behind one of their captors and constrained to clasp him around the waist for fear of falling from the horse's rump, travelled fast and hard for more than three hours, pausing only briefly, from time to time, to give their horses time to rest. And the bowmen, to Ygraine's great surprise, kept pace with them.

Eventually they arrived in another valley, a pleasant, shallow place with an ample stream running through it and a large, well- established encampment already in place. Heavy commissary wagons were set around a broad, open area that was scattered with blackened fire circles, all surrounded by logs for seating, and beyond that lay acres of cleanly laid-out horse lines and tent sites. Ygraine was astonished to realize that there were more horses and horse troopers camped there than there had been bowmen in the ambush that had captured her. Uther's force was a raiding party, she could see, but it was a large one and well equipped. She and her party attracted great curiosity among the troopers close enough to see that they were women, but they were lowered from their horses courteously enough, and then grouped together and loosely guarded while their captors transformed their end of the peaceful valley into a hive of activity, adding their own dimensions to the layout of the camp and setting up their own bivouacs.

A short time later, a trooper, whom she identified from his armour as some kind of officer, approached the women, leading a ten-man squad and a heavy wagon pulled by four heavy horses. He scanned the ground around them and then chose a spot halfway between where the women were standing and the edge of the river. He then began issuing orders and indicating where and how he wanted certain things done, and his troopers moved quickly to do his bidding.

None of the other women paid much attention to what was happening at the outset—there were far too many other interesting sights to attract their attention—but Ygraine was fascinated to see the straight-faced concentration shown by the troopers toiling in and around the big wagon. She walked closer to where they worked, unnoticed by any of them or by anyone else, and leaned against the gnarled trunk of an ancient hawthorn as she waited to see what they would do. And there for two hours she remained as they unloaded from the wagon a bewildering number of poles of various sizes, bale after bale of leather, bundles of metal pins or pegs and wooden pulleys and what seemed like miles of rope. Out of all that chaos, the troopers created a soaring edifice of roped leather sheets, the sight of which was breathtaking. It was a tent unlike any other that Ygraine had ever seen, larger, more spacious and more carefully crafted. She guessed that it might be a Roman command tent, but only because she had heard of such things and had listened skeptically as others had sought to describe their virtues and dimensions. The panels were of the finest, hand-tanned leather, sewn with double seams and then carefully waxed for weatherproofing, increased durability and extended use. She noted that the sides, and even some of the roof panels, were vented with hanging, overlapping flaps that could be opened to the weather in clement times, either rolled up and tied in place or propped open on long, thin sticks that slotted into pockets sewn to receive them. She knew that her husband would have shrivelled with envy to see such a thing.

Ygraine counted twelve tall structural poles around the outer perimeter of the tent, each of them an arm's length longer than the height of a tall, helmeted man, and there was an additional, inner square of four more, each of those thicker than the exterior poles and set four full paces from its neighbours. These raised the roof fully half as high again, and then finally, in the very centre of the edifice, was one enormously tall, strong pole that was almost as thick as her waist through its base. This central pillar was constructed to break down into manageable lengths, so that it could be quickly assembled or dismantled and carried in a single large wagon. When it was erected, a suspended, circular collar of some kind ringed the lop of this pole, and to that were attached the leather panels that formed the highest sections of the roof. Everything, it seemed—all the stretched skins of the walls and roof and all the poles themselves—was secured with ropes wound through pulleys and attached to heavy iron pegs hammered deep into the ground.

Ygraine assumed, quite naturally, that the tent was being erected for the King, Uther Pendragon, so she was more than surprised when Huw Strongarm advised Morgas that he was placing it at the disposal of her women. At first Ygraine thought he was mocking them, and so, to her credit, did Morgas. But it quickly became plain that he was not, and so Ygraine said nothing, merely gazing at Morgas and nodding her head almost imperceptibly to indicate that she should accept the concession as graciously as she could.

Now night was falling quickly, and the women were gathered together in the centre of the tent, grouped around the brazier that had been carried in by two of Huw Strongarm's troopers and placed beneath a wide, open roof flap that allowed the smoke to escape. Lamps had been lit and torches guttered in iron baskets on poles stuck in the ground. Morgas was the only one seated, and the others were all grouped about her. Ygraine, standing close behind the taller woman, had undone the lengths of Morgas's hair and was preparing to brush it. Over by the main entrance, one woman stood alone, peering out into the gathering night. Suddenly the watcher tensed.

"There's someone coming. I think it's the Cambrian!"

The group of women went still as soon as she spoke, and in the sudden hush, the guttering of the flames in the lighted lamps around the large space could be heard quite clearly. Morgas, the tallest of them all, turned completely around and glanced up, wide-eyed, at Ygraine. But the real Queen had already taken charge, turning towards the woman who had spoken and motioning to her to step away from the doorway.

"Remember, all of you," she said, her voice low-pitched and calm. "No one looks at me. Morgas is the Queen." She stepped back immediately, away from Morgas, at the same time waving for another of the women to step forward. The one called Dyllis took her place, holding a hairbrush, and immediately began brushing Morgas's hair.

She had barely begun when the leather flaps of the tent were pulled open and the first of two men entered, stooped over and holding up one arm as if to keep the tent's roof from falling on his head. His face was completely concealed by the bulk of an enormous bronze helmet that was surmounted by a high crest of red- dyed horsehair, but the size of him and something in the way he moved made it clear to her that this was the man called Huw Strong- arm. Behind him, an even larger man followed, this one Uther, King of Pendragon. This was the first time any of the women had seen him up close, and every pair of eyes in the gathering was fixed upon him, although he was so completely muffled in clothing and armour that there was little of the actual man to see.

The men moved towards the centre of the tent, where Uther stood quietly, making no attempt to speak but simply looking at Morgas and her satellite women. While he looked at Morgas, Ygraine looked at him, absorbing the imposing height of him, emphasized by the bulk of his clothing and armour and the giant shadow he threw on the wall of the high tent.

The tent had seemed enormous until then, but the looming presence of these two tall, cloaked men, in their bulky armour and high- crested helmets, made the space seem suddenly smaller and crowded, and that, in turn, made the men seem even bigger, darker and more menacing. The walls were alive with leaping, flickering shadows, and the heavy cheek-flaps of Uther's helmet made it practically impossible to see his face. Ygraine immediately decided she did not enjoy that at all. She wanted to be able to watch his eyes, to see what he was thinking. And then she experienced the distinct feeling that she herself was being watched, and her gaze moved immediately to Huw Strongarm. Sure enough, his eyes were fixed upon her face, and as he saw her look at him, he nodded. He was standing at a different angle to her than was Uther, and so as he smiled she saw his teeth reflect the light. She ignored him and moved her gaze away quickly, allowing her eyes to wander over the faces of the other women in her party. They were all staring at Uther Pendragon, transfixed.

The silence grew and stretched and no one moved until, finally, Uther bent forward slightly, exaggerating the movement deliberately until it was almost a stoop, and peered down sideways to where Dyllis. the smallest of all Ygraine's women, stood, still clutching her hairbrush. Of all the Queen's women, Dyllis was the most innocent and the most easily shocked, and Uther's elaborate interest in her brought the high colour of embarrassment flooding up into her face. The King held out his hand, one finger extended, in an unmistakable invitation for the young woman to take it. Completely flustered now, she looked rapidly from side to side for guidance from her companions, but none of them would look at her, and Ygraine felt herself grow tense with the anticipation that Dyllis might appeal to her directly. Finally, however, Dyllis reached up and took hold of Uther's hand. Keeping his arm stretched high, he led her gently out from where she stood and took her sideways across the floor of the tent towards one of the four central supports. He held her quietly in place with one upraised hand and then looked directly at Ygraine, who was now standing closest to Dyllis, and beckoned to her with his other hand, bidding her approach.

Frowning slightly, Ygraine moved slowly to obey, wondering what he was about. When she reached him, he positioned her beside Dyllis, on the other woman's right. Thereafter, one at a time, he brought all of the women except Morgas over until he had them all standing in a straight line facing him. Morgas, meanwhile, seeing herself being gradually isolated, sat watching all of this with a frown. Uther ignored her completely. When she realized that he would not look at her, Morgas turned her head angrily towards Huw Strongarm, but he was watching his King and had no eyes for her.

Uther went and stood directly in front of little Dyllis.

"Your name?" he asked her, his voice gentle.

"Dyllis." Her reply was almost a bleat, so breathless and frightened was she.

"Dyllis. A good name." He moved to stand in front of Ygraine. "And you are?"

"Deirdre." Ygraine had been ready for him and gave the name of one of her sisters, dead for many years. Her voice, as she pronounced the name, was cold and formal, her pronunciation clipped and terse.

"Deirdre?" He repeated it slowly. "Deirdre . . . Now that is an unusual name here in Britain. Forgive me . . ." He reached out and grasped her gently by the chin. She heard Dyllis gasp beside her, and for a moment she was afraid that the girl would betray her simply by her indignation. Uther tilted her head slightly to the side, towards the closest lamp. She wanted to resist, but then thought better of it and allowed him to move her face closer to the light. But his next words made her jerk her head free of his grasp and set the room spinning about her.

"You are not Deirdre of the Violet Eyes, however . . . I can see that."

By the time she could recapture her breath and brace herself for whatever he might say next, he had lost interest in her and moved on to the woman on her left, a voluptuous young beauty, only slightly overweight, called Amaryllis. Then she watched him, gradually mastering the fear that had flared in her, as he moved down the line, asking each woman her name.

When he had spoken to each one of them except Morgas, he stepped back and addressed them all, and against her will Ygraine found herself thinking that his voice was attractive, deep and resonant and mellifluous.

"I have ill tidings for you now, I fear, ladies. We will be remaining here in this valley for the next ten days, at least."

All along the line of twelve women, there were mutterings and outright gasps of consternation. Uther stemmed all of them by raising his hand.

"I regret the necessity of confining you here, but we have little choice . . . we can hardly release you to report our presence or our whereabouts, can we? It pains me, however, that we had not expected the company of women, and so we had no time to make arrangements for your presence. I can only hope that you will be comfortable with what we have been able to provide, lacking any warning.

"As you know, this tent will be yours while you arc here with us, and you will be safe here as long as you remain discreetly inside and do not go wandering through the encampment. I'm sure I have no need to remind you that the men all around you are soldiers, and enemy soldiers at that. They are unused to having women close by while they are on campaign, and they tend to think of women— when they think of them at all, which is constantly—as part of the plunder. There is nothing I can do at this late stage to reeducate them quickly on that matter. However, they are not bad men, and for the most part they are disciplined and well behaved. They are far from being wild animals, no matter what you may have been told to the contrary. The guards I have assigned to you can contain them and will protect you from them should the need arise, but only if you co-operate, and certainly not if you provoke the men's lusts by bringing yourselves to their attention. Simply by making yourselves visible, you will generate more than enough provocation to violence. Have I made myself clear on that?"

"Perfectly." The word, dripping with disdain, came from Morgas. "And now that you have absolved yourself of responsibility for our eventual ravishment and death by placing the blame squarely upon us in advance, what else have you in store for us?"

Uther had stopped moving as soon as she began to speak, and he held himself motionless until she finished. Only then did he straighten his shoulders and turn his head slowly towards her.

"I will have words for you later, lady. For now, I have none." He turned back to the women. "My men are digging private latrines for you as I speak, working by torchlight. When they are finished, they will fence off a pathway between the entrance to this tent and the site of the latrines, which lie to your left. It will be safe for you to use, and it will be private. On the other side, to the right of the main entrance, we will build a temporary bathhouse for your needs. It will be a Roman-style, military bathhouse, but very basic, lacking a furnace and steam room. The water might not be very hot, but neither will it be completely cold, and the sides will be screened for your safety.

"We will feed you from one of our commissary wagons, and while we are encamped you will have a hot meal, with fresh-cooked meat, every night. For the rest of the time, you will eat what our men eat and when they eat." He looked about him again. "There are twelve of you. Twelve cots will be delivered here within the hour. There should be ample room for everyone."

Morgas spoke again. "There are thirteen of us, not twelve."

Uther turned and looked at her again, then raised a hand to Huw, who stepped aside and went to the doorway, where he spoke to one of the guards outside. A moment later, two more men entered the tent, ordinary troopers identically dressed. Uther stood motionless as the two crossed to stand one on either side of Morgas, who remained seated, a picture of icy detachment. Despite herself, Ygraine felt a flicker of admiration for her deputy and for the performance she was delivering.

Uther moved to stand in front of Morgas, looking down at her.

"You may take the chair with you if you so wish, lady, and if you insist, we will even carry you while you yet sit upon it, but you are not staying here with your women. You are going where I can keep my eye on you." He raised a hand to quell the instant surge of protest that arose from the women and spoke over the noise. "Your Queen will be safe enough, I promise you. Bear in mind, this woman has been wed to Gulrhys Lot. After such misfortune as that, I can promise all of you that she will come to no harm at my hands. I take her from you only because I cannot believe the gods have rendered Gulrhys Lot's Queen into my care, and I do not intend to lose her to any cause or condition." He glanced back to Morgas. "So, milady, I hope you do not snore, for only the wall of a tent will keep the sound of it from me. I, of course, do not snore."

He jerked his head to the guards and turned back again to face the row of women as Morgas rose to her feet and left with the two guards, accepting the soft woollen cloak that Huw held out to her as she walked past him. All twelve women were watching Uther, quiet and wide-eyed, and none of them as much as glanced at Morgas.

He looked at them and nodded. "You will all be safe here, believe me. Sleep well." Then he bowed and moved to the flapped doorway, where he ducked his head and disappeared, closely followed by Huw Strongarm.

Ygraine stood frowning, wondering what had happened here. She had prepared Morgas to seduce Uther, but neither of them had been prepared for him simply to abduct her. And yet, a voice inside her head was telling her, Uther could scarcely have clone anything more suitable to her own designs, for in removing Morgas from the company of the other women, he had preserved Ygraine against her greatest fear: that over time, in such constrained quarters and under the constant vigilance of guards, one or another of the women must betray by act or word or gesture, or even through simple deference, that it was she who was the Queen and not Morgas.

She turned to her women, who were beginning to find their voices, whispering among themselves. But before she could even begin speaking to any of them, a raised voice from outside the tent announced that their cots and bedding had arrived. And shortly after that, while they were setting up their sleeping arrangements, another message came that their latrines had been finished and were in working order.

It was long after dark and the lamps were guttering low before the women got to bed that night, and before she fell asleep, Ygraine wondered what was happening to Morgas.

Even as the thought occurred to Ygraine, Morgas was alone in Uther's impressive campaign tent. Uther had conducted her there personally, accompanied by two guards carrying torches, and as one of the guards went about lighting a number of oil lamps, he had shown her how the space within the tent was divided by a T-shaped partition of leather walls so as to create three chambers, the front one twice the size of the two at the rear. The main partition, made of thin, supple, lightly oiled leather and reaching head high, stretched across the entire width of the tent between two poles, save for a space at each end that permitted access to the sleeping cubicles behind. The two rear compartments were barely separated from each other by a second, similar screen, strung between two more poles in the ground, that divided the space equally, the pole at one end almost touching the rear wall of the tent, while the other reached close to the lateral partition, leaving sufficient space for a body to pass from one cubicle to the other without having to go all the way around to the other entrance. Each compartment contained a simple military cot and footlocker, and a collapsible washstand that held a jug and a basin made of fired clay. The larger space at the front of the tent held a plain, large table and a smaller one that served as a washstand, with a basin and a ewer of water and a wooden rail mounted on one side from which hung a strip of towel. Then there were a wooden chair with arms, a three-legged stool, two more footlockers and a device of crossed poles fashioned to accommodate armour and clothing that was not in use. Uther led her directly into the sleeping chamber on the right and waved his thumb towards the cot.

'You will sleep here. I will be there, on the other side of the wall."

Her lip curled in scorn. "You will be there, will you? And for how long will you remain there? Do you expect me to sleep in peace, lulled by your solemn word alone that I will not be molested? How big a fool do you think I am, sir?"

One of his eyebrows rose, but for a long time he made no response other than a small, sardonic twitch of his lips that might have been the beginning of a pitying smile. Finally his head moved very slightly in the negative and the smile grew slightly larger. "Lady, I have no expectations of you at all, and your foolishness is already demonstrated by your marriage to the self-styled King of Cornwall. Have no fears for your chastity, for had I wished to have you in my bed, that is where you would now be. Bear in mind you are my prisoner. And on that same point, do not attempt to leave this tent. There will be guards outside at all times with orders to restrain you if necessary, and if that means you have to spend most of your nights gagged and trussed up with ropes, so be it. The choice is yours." He nodded in dismissal to the two waiting guards and they saluted and withdrew. Uther looked over to her. "Do you have any questions?"

She threw back her head defiantly, presenting her heavy, proud breasts for his inspection. "You say you have no interest in despoiling me. Why, then . . . by what right do you separate me from my women?"

"By my own right as your captor." He did not deign to cast as much as a glance towards her breasts but kept his eyes fixed on hers. "You will be permitted to spend some time with your women each day. Three or four may come at a time, but no more than that, to visit you here. They may stay with you for a maximum of two hours each time. None of them, however, will have any access to your bodyguard or to any male member of your retinue or escort. Be warned on that, and make sure you discourage them from attempting to defy that rule. It will be hard on anyone caught trying to communicate with your people outside.

"Nemo is the name of the commander of your guards. He is a decurion in my personal guard, and I trust him implicitly." He smiled again, a tight, wintry little smile containing little amusement. "Your . . . virtue . . . will be safe from him, as well, as his will be from you and any wiles you might think to deploy against him. I warn you, Nemo is not seducible, so do not even think about suborning him. But then, if you feel that you simply must make the attempt in order to demonstrate how irresistible you are . . . well, remember that I warned you."

He looked around the tent, noting that the lamps were all burning brightly and steadily. Satisfied, he looked back at her and nodded.

"They should be bringing you some food soon, and I will make sure that someone brings you a jug of hot water before you retire. Sleep well."

Then, before she could think of a single thing to say to arrest him or to put him in his place, he spun on his heel and walked away, out of the tent, leaving her fuming and decidedly out of sorts.

Morgas was not accustomed to having men ignore her physical attractions. Since the days when womanhood first began to emerge in her, she had been blessed not only with a winsome, lovely face and soft, wide, sensual lips, but with high, heavy breasts and a narrow back and waist that swelled out to lushly rounded hips above long, clean-lined legs. All males lusted after her at one time or another, she knew, and most of them did it all the time, devouring her with hungry eyes. That was something she had come to take for granted over the years, and now she expected no less. Even the King, Gulrhys Lot, had fallen under her spell after only a very short time, and no man to whom she herself had fell attracted had ever refused her, let alone ignored her, as had this upstart Cambrian. She consoled herself by planning exactly how she would behave at their next encounter and what she would say to him, how she would spurn his approach and shrivel him with disdain.

What she was completely unprepared for, however, was that it would be three entire days and nights before she saw him again.

On the morning after Morgas's "abduction" by Uther, the women were surprised to receive a visit from the senior surgeon of the Camulod raiding party, who introduced himself to them as Mucius Quinto and explained his position within Uther's group before offering them his assistance, should any of them have need of his medical services. His visit set off a buzz of scandalized discussion among the women, none of whom had ever heard of professionally trained and educated surgeons or physicians. In their kingdom, all illnesses and medical conditions were treated by those Druids who specialized in herbal knowledge and medicaments. Ygraine held herself aloof from all their talk, thinking instead about Morgas and Uther and wondering what had happened between them.

A short time later, when one of the guards brought word that three women might go and visit "the Queen" in her quarters, Ygraine stood immediately as one of the three. Her eyes never stopped moving, seeing and cataloguing everything there was to see as she and two others were escorted from the command tent to the smaller tent that was Uther's own. Morgas's prison—the King's Tent, as it was called—lay under heavy guard some hundred paces along the riverside on a stony bank above the water in a glade that was surrounded on three sides by thick-growing willows.

Ygraine was more than surprised to find, in answer to her first question, that Uther had not entered the tent at all the previous night, apart from having delivered Morgas there. How could it be that Uther Pendragon, whose monstrous behavior and rapacious sexual appetites were legendary, could have disdained the obvious and available lushness of Morgas's body? She began racking her brains to uncover a potential explanation for such uncharacteristic behaviour from the Pendragon King.

It did not even occur to Ygraine that Uther might simply have left the camp again that same night so soon after arriving. They did not discover that until much later in the day when they discovered, too, that Huw Strongarm had ridden out this time with Uther and the cavalry that Uther called his Dragons, leaving the camp in the charge of a subordinate commander, and Morgas, as Uther had promised, in the charge of the decurion called Nemo. And so for three days, the women established a pattern of waiting and being bored.

When the rumours reached Morgas that Uther had returned, she commanded one of her guards to take a message from her to the King, demanding that he come to speak with her. The man gazed at her in silence for a time, offered a derisive "humph" and returned stolidly to his post, leaving her to fume impotently and eventually to compose herself and wait in patience for her captor to return. This was his tent, she told herself. His belongings were here, as was his bed, and she believed that, having spent the last three nights on the ground beneath the open sky, he might wish to sleep in his cot for a change. She was determined to be ready for him when he did.

She dressed with particular care that day, taking pains to make herself look as alluring and as seductively attractive as she possibly could. The results were spectacular, drawing and holding the eyes and the stares even of her regular guards, who had all been selected, she had begun to believe, for their ability to remain undistracted by her charms. She wore a flowing, voluminous gown of material so fine as to be almost translucent, with nothing else between its draperies and her skin, so that the garment revealed breathtaking glimpses of her curves and swooping, fleetingly outlined silhouettes of breast and belly, hip and thigh as she passed between men's eyes and the bright light of the sun—which she contrived to do as often as possible, the better to gauge and evaluate the effect of such sightings. Overall she was encouraged by the slack-mouthed awe of her observers, who stood watching her, rather than pacing their posts as usual. So successful was she, in fact, that the sheer freedom of her unconfined body beneath the gown began to affect her erotically as her skin, and particularly her nipples, became sensitized to the gentle friction of the garment's fabric. But as her erotic tension increased, the afternoon drew towards evening, night fell, and her evening meal was served without any sighting of Uther Pendragon. Eventually she retired to her own cot, where she tossed and turned for a long time before finally falling asleep, angry and distempered.

She awoke some lime later; perhaps hours later or perhaps only a fraction of that time, she had no idea. She knew only that she had been awakened by a heavy, muffled noise close by, and when she opened her eyes, startled and disoriented, she had no memory of where she was. It was dark and quiet, but there was a yellow effulgence on one side of her, a dim radiance that lit one side of the enclosure in which she found herself. Rigid, she lay wide-eyed, fighting down panic, and as her heartbeat fell back towards its normal pace, she began to think coherently again. She remembered where she was, and she remembered, too, that just beyond the walls of the tent wherein she lay at least two guards stood vigilantly, not merely guarding her, but guarding against any attempt she might make to flee.

Then came the noise again. This time she heard it clearly, and she saw an accompanying movement of shadows against the backlit leather wall close by her cot. Uther Pendragon had returned to his tent and was now in the act of removing his armour, evidently attempting to do so quietly without disturbing her. Then she heard a muffled voice speaking very quietly and saw the massive shadow on the wall split into two human shapes, one moving off to the right, where she could no longer see it, while the other remained in place. A picture sprang into her mind immediately of the cruciform wooden rack that was made to hold a full set of armour—cuirass and sword belt, helmet and kilt of armoured straps—and she knew that Uther was being assisted by a trooper, who had carried his discarded armour to hang it upon the device while his master looked to his own comfort.

A moment later the remaining shadow, which she presumed to be Uther's, also moved out of sight, looming first to engulf the entire wall and then disappearing completely, so that she knew he had now moved beyond the light, leaving it between him and her. She heard a quiet splashing as water was poured from a jug into a bowl, and then a muttered farewell as the trooper left the tent, evidently taking a light away with him, since the brightness on the far side of the wall decreased sharply as soon as he left.

Morgas lay quietly for some time after that, holding her breath for long stretches and straining her ears to make out every sound of movement from beyond the partition, but she heard only the sound of softly splashing water and occasionally the sound of breathing from the man on the other side. She heard a sudden, muffled grunt and then a sharp intake of breath, and then another silence stretched out, during which she heard nothing at all. A renewed sound of gently pouring water and a soft, scrubbing sound, and a vision formed in her mind to accompany the sounds to which she listened, a vision that excited her and brought a swelling of her heartbeat and a shortness of breath as she envisioned the man close by her, naked in the dim light of a taper, washing himself completely in the almost-dark. Before she knew what she was doing, she had risen from her bed and moved soundlessly to where she could see into the other part of the tent.

There, sure enough, she saw him naked at his ablutions, washed in the gentle radiance of a single candle so that much of him shone golden in the light while the rest of him was shrouded in darkness. So tall was he and so broad across his back and shoulders that he appeared gigantic, his bulk amplified and enhanced by the giant black shadow thrown now by the candle onto the wall opposite her. His slightest movement caused the flame to flicker and sent the shadow leaping to engulf fully half of the tent wall beyond him and the roof of the tent above him.

Aware but uncaring of her own nudity, knowing that he could not see into the blackness that contained her, Morgas approached the opening in the partition cautiously, making sure that she remained clear of the wedge of pale light spilling into her sleeping area from his candle. Moving slowly through the pitch blackness, she felt her heart begin to hammer in her chest as she allowed her lust to stir and stretch itself.

His chest was broad and deep, coated with crisp, curling black hair that tapered downward to his loins and blended with the dark, impenetrable shadows on the front of him. Behind, the golden candlelight limned the edges of his arms and torso and threw liquid light to outline the edge of his left buttock and the strong sweeping column of his thigh and rounded calf. As she watched, he raised one foot and placed it upon a low stool while he soaked the cloth he held in one hand and used it to wash his crotch, stooping and reaching backwards as he scrubbed and cleansed himself thoroughly. She could not see much in detail, but her imagination served her requirements admirably, and when he dropped the cloth into the bowl and reached for a length of towel behind him, she was delighted when he failed to reach it easily and had to take a small half-step towards it, turning towards the light to pick it up, so that she saw him completely. Then, standing thus, his every movement sensuous and redolent of lazy pleasure, he dried himself at leisure and turned back finally to the basin, where he took himself in hand and pissed, in an arcing stream, into the water wherein he had washed. That done, he took up the basin carefully in both hands and carried it to the doorway of the tent, where he shouldered his way through the flaps and flung the contents of the basin out onto the ground. He returned immediately, emptied the remaining water from the jug into the bowl, swirled it around and took it outside again, repeating the procedure. Returning again, he dried his hands once more with the towel and threw it into the bowl before turning quickly and picking up the candle, cupping his hand around the flame to keep it from guttering.

So directly and unexpectedly did he move in doing this that he caught Morgas completely by surprise, giving her no time to react or even to attempt to regain her cot. She froze, holding her breath, and watched the light move quickly across the front of the tent until its glow appeared behind the panel of the partition between the sleeping chambers. But then, just as she was about to move back to where she ought to be, it reversed direction and came swiftly and silently back towards her. Uther had obviously decided to check up on her before going to sleep, and she backed away hurriedly from the opening in the partition until she could go no farther, blocked by the rear corner of the tent. Less than three steps brought him to the gap opposite where she stood in the dark, but he did not see her as quickly as she saw him. He had not quite entered the sleeping chamber but had paused just outside it, bending forward and peering around the edge of the thin leather wall to where her cot lay empty. She heard the surprised hiss as he saw that she was not there, and then he straightened up immediately, moving quickly, and swept his candle into the chamber, until the light fell across the paleness of her naked form.

In another man, at another time, Morgas might have laughed at the evident play of his thoughts as they swept across his face. She saw surprise, doubt, incomprehension and finally a kind of wide-eyed wonder as his initial alarm subsided and he realized not only that she was safe and had not escaped, but that she was awake and out of bed and beautifully bared to his gaze. In another place, at another time, she herself might well have responded far differently than she did, but this time and place were all she had. and she found her own mind filled with contradictions. She had been instantly prepared to lash out in scorn, in words dripping with irony, to give him the lie for his former protestations of disinterest. But the words died on her lips unspoken as she watched his eyes take note of her. She had immediately formed the intent, too, to stalk across the chamber and snatch up a blanket, throwing it across her to mask herself from his gaze, but she found her feet unable or unwilling to move as his eyes moved slowly down and then back up the length of her body. She knew she should do something, scream for assistance or attempt to run from him, but instead she remained motionless, her heart fluttering harder in her chest as his gaze moved from one breast to the other, then down to her navel. And she knew, as the last possible moment when she might have done so died and was forever lost, that she should have said something, anything, should have protested and complained, but now it was far, far too late. So she stood silent, staring at the man, saying nothing, aware of his increasing arousal and of her own, less obvious but no less powerful.

Finally, it was he who broke the silence, swallowing audibly, and then opening his mouth with a dry, sucking sound, to speak in a quiet tone that, while not quite breathless and not quite a whisper, suggested nonetheless that he was surprised, and moved, and aware of others close by.

"By the gods, lady . . . I did not expect this."

Morgas believed him—the truth of it was stamped plainly on his face—but even more than that, she knew exactly how he was feeling, because experience had taught her that the kind of excitement she was feeling at that moment was never ever one-sided. On the contrary, she knew that it was born of acute and mutual anticipation, and she knew, too, that it would not be denied. She began to speak, then stopped, simply staring at him, feeling her insides turn hot and then melt, flowing downward to her centre.

"What did you expect?" she asked, whispering too, aware that she had to say something. He shook his head, gazing at her breasts again and running the tip of his tongue across his lips, and she continued. "You said you would not take . . . what you were expected to take . . ."

He shook his head again, drawing in a great, deep breath and letting it out with a shudder as he fought to master himself. "True," he said at length. "I did."

"And . . . and will you now?"

Again a head shake, this time stronger, more determined. "No."

"Not even be it freely offered?"

"What. . .?'

She allowed the silence to hang there, vibrating in the air between them as he thought about what she had said last, and then she brought up her hands, moving slowly, and cupped them beneath her breasts. "Freely offered," she whispered.

Slowly, not taking his eyes away from hers for a moment, he half knelt and placed the candle sconce on the ground. Then he straightened up again and stepped slowly towards her. He stopped when he was almost but not quite touching her, gazing into her eyes, and she moved closer so that her belly came into contact with his hardness and he flinched, jerking away involuntarily. And then he took her shoulders in his hands and pulled her gently to him, stooping his mouth to hers as his arm dropped down about her waist and he brought her up to meet his kiss. She let herself be gathered and went limp, filling his arms with the weight of her inert body, anticipating that the unexpectedness of it would pull him forward and off balance. Instead, however, he caught her close with the arm that encircled her and swept his other arm up behind her knees, lifting her as effortlessly as he might a child. Then he carried her directly to the cot in the corner, where he knelt and lowered her down softly as she wrapped her arms about his neck and pulled him to her.

Chapter TWENTY-SIX

For more than a week Uther kept his distance from Ygraine and the other women, although he kept himself precisely informed of their well-being and their morale through his intermediaries. The only woman who saw him in all that time was Morgas, because he came to her bed each night. He made no attempt to speak to her about any of his plans, however, nor did he respond in any way to her questions of him. He came only to rut with her, and he rutted magnificently, which pleased Morgas immensely, since her lustful appetites matched his own. When he was sated, however, as he eventually was each night, he would rise and seek his own cot, and on the two occasions when Morgas sought to follow him and question him, he left the tent and went to sleep elsewhere instead. Morgas was angry at first, but then she accepted the situation. All things change, she knew, and she was confident that, given time, Uther would come to confide in her. She informed Ygraine that Uther was entwined in her clutches, but remained vague about what they discussed in bed.

Then, on the tenth day after the capture, came word that threw the King into a towering rage, a fury so overpowering that he knew he would have to leave the camp in order to rid himself of the temptation to do violence to the Queen and her women. Owain of the Caves had brought him the ill tidings that a party of envoys sent to Gulrhys Lot on the first day of the Queen's captivity had been received by Lot and then butchered out of hand as soon as they had delivered their message. Owain and a squadron of bowmen had accompanied the envoys—a mounted squad of Dragons under the command of a gifted young decurion called Lodder—but had remained nearby, securely hidden, when Lodder and his men rode forward openly to attract Lot's attention.

The "messengers from Camulod," as they were being called, had been received courteously and permitted to keep their weapons. Lot had been unable to meet with them immediately upon their arrival, having other duties and responsibilities that demanded his attention, but had invited them to present their case to him later that night at a banquet to be attended by his Chiefs and senior allies.

Lodder had delivered his King's message that night, explaining that the Queen, Ygraine, was Uther's captive, and then going on to outline Uther's terms of ransom, and when he had finished making his presentation, Lot had questioned him closely on the specifics, asking about the Queen and her escort, and about the ambush in which they had been captured. When questioned about the actual details of the skirmish, however, including its location, Lodder demurred, and Lot flew into a short-lived but highly spectacular fury. By the end of it, Lodder and his ten men were dead, hacked to pieces by the other diners.

After the slaughter that he had incited in his own Hall, Lot made a jest of the dead men and their mission, and then confiscated their horses and equipment, appropriating them for his own use. He drank a health to his hapless and unfortunate Queen, publicly swearing to do all In his power to win her back from Uther's clutches, but in his own way, and not at Uther's invitation or upon Uther's terms. His last words on the topic were a scathing and scornful condemnation, delivered in front of all his drunken, bloodstained crew, of what he called the inept and cowardly role played by the Lord Herliss in the loss of the King's wife, and in order to rectify that, he appointed Herliss's son, Lagan Longhead, to lead an expedition immediately to locate and rescue Queen Ygraine and her women. In the doing of that, Lagan was also to rescue and then arrest his father, Herliss, and bring him home to Herliss's own fortress of Tir Gwyn, there to stand trial for traitorous conduct and cowardice. In order to ensure that father and son would both return to Tir Gwyn, Lot then took Lagan's wife and son into what he chose to refer to as "protective custody," although everyone hearing him knew they would be held as prisoner-hostages against Lagan's return.

It had taken Owain four days to piece together the details of what took place that night, for he had had to prise the information with great care from a variety of sources and informants, permitting none of them to see or even suspect that he was being inquisitive. Now, he could report that Lagan Longhead was out scouring the hills to the south and far west of Uther's current position with a large army of mercenaries. He had already been gone for two days by the time Owain got the word, and he had begun his search by striking down into the far southwest corner of Cornwall's territories, since that was the region wherein his father held the largest tracts of land and property.

Uther listened to all of this in silence, although the fury growing in him was plain to be seen in his eyes and on his whitened face and in the spastic clutching of his hands as he held himself otherwise motionless. When Owain had finished and sat staring at him, the King opened his mouth to speak, but then snapped it shut again as though afraid of what might emerge. Finally, after a long, long period of utter silence, he raised one hand and pointed a commanding finger at Owain.

"Say nothing. Nothing . . . of any of this. To anyone. Before I return." With that, he turned on his heel, moving as if in a dream, and stalked away.

Owain followed him at a distance and watched the King saddle his horse and prepare to leave, and then he turned away to find his longbow and quiver, prepared to follow him wherever he might go. As he bent to pick up his arrows, however, he heard Uther's voice from above and behind him.

"Stay here, Owain, and don't try to follow me. I'll be riding hard and far to let the wind blow through my mind, and I'll come to no harm. I just need to be alone." With that, Uther swung his horse around and rode out.

By the time he had returned to camp, having spent long, solitary hours among the hills digesting all that he had been told, night had long since darkened the encampment. Heedless of the hour Uther went directly to Huw Strongarm's tent and summoned Owain, Garreth Whistler and Huw himself to join him there.

Speaking in terse, clipped sentences, Uther told them everything that Owain had told him earlier. It was evident, he said, that Lot had no fear of Uther's wrath. He had demonstrated that by his almost casual execution of the envoys, although it might be argued that his flamboyant cruelty was merely the token gesture of a braggart, since he had called them "Camulodian messengers," indicating that he might not know with whom he was really dealing. Either way, Uther had decided, the cost of that crime would be the loss of Lot's own skin, flayed from his living body on the day he became Uther's prisoner.

Equally clearly, Uther continued, Lot cared nothing about what became of his Queen, Ygraine, and the women unfortunate enough to have been in her company when she was taken. Had it been otherwise, he would have handled everything differently. The Queen was a mere woman and a chattel, bestowed upon him in a marriage of convenient alliance with a King who now lacked importance or significance. So he was careless of her fate, and that was unsurprising and expected in a man like Gulrhys Lot. What was far more significant, however, was that he should be so uncaring about the other twelve captured women. Certainly, he had sworn a public oath to find and rescue all of them, including Ygraine, and had dispatched an army to do that, but that had been no more than a token gesture of hand-wringing hypocrisy. The army he had dispatched was a rabble of mercenaries, and its leadership was questionable at best—a son forced into service against his own father by a threat against his wife and child. Ten of the Queen's women, he pointed out, were Cornish, the other two having come from Eire with their lady. But those ten Cornish women were all daughters of Lot's supporters, the wealthiest and most powerful of Cornwall's Chiefs and warlords, and some, if not all of them, must have value in their fathers' eyes. What, then, did this blatant unconcern say about Lot's dealings with his own most senior and powerful people? How could he afford to be so openly uncaring of what they thought?

The three men, the closest of all his followers, sat gazing at him without speaking, thinking over all that they had been told and trying to make sense out of any part of it. It was Garreth Whistler who eventually broke the silence.

"Uther," he said, "there's something very wrong here, something I can't grasp . . . And that leaves me thinking Lot must be insane. Could that be true? This hostage nonsense, taking this fellow Lagan's wife and son in order to make sure he goes against his own father . . ."

Uther was leaning forward, his eyes narrowed to slits. "What you are really wondering is whether or not the man is far enough gone in his mind to have taken hostages from everyone about him to ensure the ongoing loyalty of all of them. Am I right?"

"Aye, you are. Could he do such a thing? I've never heard the like."

"Nor have I, my friend, but it would not be impossible . . . given that you were insane enough to accept that everyone around you must hate and fear you." Uther looked from Garreth to the other two. "Owain, would you know aught of the like?"

Owain of the Caves shrugged his shoulders and managed to nod his head simultaneously. "I would. I lived with it for a while." He turned his gaze on Garreth. "That's what it was growing to be like with Meradoc. He was drunk with power and felt the stronger to have people go in fear of him. But it was going to his head, none'less, and he was getting worse . . . He would never have held hostages, though. That would have been too much work. He'd have had to feed them and keep them healthy. He had us, instead. We put the fear of dying into everyone around him. Didn't have to do anything most of the time. It was simply enough to be there, and to be seen and feared." He stopped short and looked quickly at Uther. "Think you that's what Lot is doing?"

"Aye, Owain, I do. I think he has surrounded himself with a force of mercenaries strong enough to carry out his every wish without compunction, and their strength guards his strength."

"Then he's a fool, as well as mad!" This was Huw Strongarm. "They are but hired men, with no loyalty to him."

"Aye, perhaps. But never doubt a mercenary's loyalty to the hand that holds the drawstring of the purse that pays him, Huw. As long as Lot can keep them paid—be it in booty, gold, food, drink or women—they'll do his bidding and fulfill his purposes. And if those purposes entail keeping his entire people terrified and on their toes, awaiting death, so be it."

"So where does that leave us?" asked Garreth Whistler.

"Well, it leaves us with a task regarding this army that's out looking for us. We know they're down in the far southwest, or they were a few days ago. What we must do is keep them there, where they won't interfere with us or our plans."

"And how will we do that?" Garreth asked.

"You will do it, Garreth, by leading our Dragons down there and finding Lagan Longhead, then taking vengeance for Lodder and his ten men. Lot's rabble will be as sheep against wolves, face to face with our Dragons, especially when you tell our troopers what befell their friends who went to talk with Lot and his carrion-eaters. But your task will be to harry them, Garreth, not to fight battles. Hit them hard and outrun them on horseback, then turn about and hit them hard again. Give them no rest, no satisfaction and no mercy. Set them reeling, then keep them staggering. Keep them in the field and in the far southwest, away from here."

"Aye, I'll do that. When d'you want me to leave?"

"I'm not sure yet, but it will be very soon. Probably tomorrow."

"Fine. And while I'm away, what are you going to do with all these blasted women, now we know their King won't buy them back?"

"I'm going to use them, Garreth, against Lot. And I'm going to use them very cleverly, I think. In fact, I have been thinking greatly on that this past week and have evolved a stratagem that might work . . . if I can charm their Queen."

Owain coughed loudly into his sleeve, unsuccessfully smothering a guffaw.

Uther looked at him, one eyebrow rising slowly in query. "Owain?"

"Your pardon," he said, smiling openly now. "But . . . you've bedded her, why shouldn't you charm her, too?"

Uther gazed at the big Northerner, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts, and then looked in turn at Huw and at Garreth, both of whom sat blank-faced, staring at him. When he had searched their eyes, all three of them, he nodded slowly.

"What would you say if I informed you that the one I am bedding is not the Queen?"

"Not the—" Huw Strongarm sat straighter, and his right hand dropped unconsciously to the hilt of his dagger. "But of course she is the Queen!"

"Ah yes, Huw." Uther laughed aloud. "She told you so, did she not? I had forgotten. You asked her if she was the Queen and she answered you that she was."

"Yes, she did."

"And did it never occur to you that it might not have been to the Queen's advantage to be known? Or that the one you asked might lie and all the others, too, to protect the true Queen's identity and person?"

"Well, I . . ." Huw's voice died away and he sat silent.

"Which one is the real Queen, then?" Garreth asked, and Uther grinned at him.

"You ought to know, Garreth. You have met her sister, or at least seen her, twice that I know of. And her brother, too."

Garreth looked incredulous. "Her brother? I have met her brother? How would I know the brother of a Cornish Queen?"

"Because she is not Cornish, nor yet from Britain at all. Think, man, think! Do you remember my Cousin Merlyn's adjutant, Donuil? Well, he had a sister . . ."

"Aye, you told me. Cassandra, the girl you found in the woods. Except her name turned out to be . . ."

"Deirdre, the red-haired one. Now, here's what I have in mind."

"Wait you, Uther, before you go farther." Owain sounded perplexed. "Before you go any farther, answer me this . . . How do you expect to charm the real Queen while you be yet tupping the false one?"

"I have already stopped tupping the false one."

"Have you, by all the gods? And when was that?"

"Last night. No, in truth it was this afternoon when I began to think this through. That is when I decided to stop."

"And d'you think she will take kindly to that? She'll be angry."

"Wherefore? At being deceived? I think not. Remember, she pretends to be the Queen, thereby deceiving me. Now listen closely. We will say nothing of this failed approach to Lot in any of our dealings with the women, but I want to separate them all from the true Queen, so here is what we'll do . . ."

In the brightness of mid-morning the following day, Dyllis was isolated by four guards and taken away from her companions without explanation, two of the guards accompanying and leading her, gently enough and without force, one on either side, while the other two used their spears as barriers to prevent any of her companions from attempting to aid her.

Bewildered rather than frightened by the suddenness of her abduction, Dyllis had barely begun to make sense of what was happening to her when her guards came to a halt and she found herself in front of another tent, this one far smaller than the King's Tent in which Morgas was confined. A wooden table stood in front of it, with two folding wood-and-leather chairs, and on her right, its reins loosely tethered to a hawthorn tree, an enormous brown horse, bridled and saddled, stood so close to her that she could hear the ripping sound of grass being cropped between its grazing lips.

"Sit, lady." One of her guards pointed towards a chair, and Dyllis moved timidly to obey him. As soon as she was seated, both guards stepped back from her in unison and stood with their spear butts grounded by their right feet, their left hands behind their backs as though their thumbs were hooked into their belts, and their eyes fixed upon some point far distant above her head.

Moments later, the flaps of the tent were pulled back and the giant form of Uther Pendragon emerged, wearing full armour, but carrying his heavy, ornate helmet in the crook of his left arm. He stepped forward until he loomed over her, forcing her to lilt her head back in order to see him, and then he smiled and nodded, placing his helmet on the table between them and sitting down carefully in the other chair.

"Lady Dyllis. I hope my men did not mistreat you?"

Dyllis opened her mouth to respond, but nothing emerged so completely surprised was she. She had heard terrible things about this man, this scourge of all things decent and familial, but his face was open and smiling, unlined and unblemished, even by a frown. It was a youthful face, with a long, straight nose, humorous and cleanshaven, apart from a full moustache that stretched down to his chin. She saw strength and confidence, but none of the cruelty, arrogance and disdain she had thought to see. And she realized that she was sitting gaping like a fool. She swallowed hard, coughed slightly to clear her throat, then tried to speak again, this time with more success, although all that came out was a frightened, wordless squeak.

Uther smiled again and spoke right on as though he had heard her perfectly and had understood every word she had meant to say.

"I sent for you because I have something important to do . . . a decision I must make, regarding you and your companions and the Queen . . . and it seemed to me that you would probably be the best person to ask."

Dyllis found her voice at that, frowning with disapproval at his presumption. "Why would you think that. Sir King?" She saw his eyebrow rise up on his forehead, but before he could interrupt, she swept on, finding the words now without difficulty. "On matters regarding my lady the Queen, she herself must be the best person to ask. I have no right to speak in her stead. Since you are an abductor of women and therefore without honour, you have no right to ask me anything at all, but most certainly you have no right to ask me for my opinion concerning what the Queen might think or say or do." She stopped then, having frightened herself with her forth- rightness, but Uther was nodding his head.

"I have no quarrel with that, lady . . . though I take exception to your remarks about honour. I will say no more than this. My honour lies in my own recognizance, and to this point I have done nothing to demean it with regard to you. your Queen or the rest of her women.

"Beyond that, however, on the matter of the Queen, I grant that what you say is true, and I have no justification for expecting you to speak on her behalf on any matter. But that is not what I would ask of you. My urgency lies elsewhere. Your Queen is in my hands, and as a hostage she is more than simply valuable: she is beyond price. And yet, if I do the wrong thing, or if I proceed less than judiciously, I could lose every advantage in negotiating with Lot for her release. I will release her, and unharmed—I can give you my assurance on that, so believe as you will—but we are at a crucial interval here, and I require your help in the form of an answer to this question: which one, of all the Queen's women, would be the best possible choice for me to send to Lot with word of his wife's capture?"

He stopped talking then, watching her eyes closely, and precisely when he saw her begin to gather her breath to speak, he held up a peremptory hand.

"Before you answer that, let me add something else for you to consider: the woman whom I send must have authority among you and must command respect in all your eyes, for only then will she achieve standing in Lot's eyes, I believe. But she must also be fluent and strong in argument, and she must enjoy the confidence of the Queen herself. Do you take my meaning?"

Dyllis nodded. "I do."

"And do you have such a woman among your number?"

Dyllis nodded. "Yes, but only one. The woman you require is called Deirdre. She has everything you seek, and she, above all others, has the power to convince King Lot of what he must do to safeguard and win back his wife, Ygraine the Queen."

Uther frowned. "You intrigue me. She, above all others, has the power to convince Lot? Arc you saying—is this Deirdre then Lot's mistress? For if she is, she would be the worst person I could send, since it would be to her advantage to leave her Queen right here with me, rotting in bondage."

Dyllis coloured prettily and raised her head high. "Believe me, the Lady Deirdre is no mistress to King Lot. Nor need you fear her motives. Nothing would be more to Lady Deirdre's liking than to have Queen Ygraine safe home again as quickly as may be, and safe from your captivity."

Uther stared at her for long moments, his brows drawn slightly together, then nodded decisively. "So be it. I shall use your Lady Deirdre as my messenger. She will be my interlocutor in dealing with Lot."

"But—but you cannot. . ." the Lady Dyllis looked scandalized. "You cannot, surely, think to send the Lady Deirdre out alone to do your bidding? Surely you will grant her at least one companion?"

"One companion? She will have an armed escort. She will come to no harm."

"An armed escort? That will be well enough for her protection while travelling, but she will require a companion, someone with whom she may be herself. She needs more than an escort of drunken soldiery. Think you your base-born troopers could be fit company for any high-born lady?"

Uther appeared to think about that for a time, then nodded in agreement. "Very well, we will permit her a companion. Will you accompany her?"

Dyllis sat blinking at him, her eyes awash with tears as she realized what was being asked of her, and then she nodded wordlessly.

Uther grinned and stood up. "My thanks, Lady Dyllis, you have relieved my mind. Now please inform your friends that they will soon be removed again, with your Queen, this time to a place of safety, with clean, pleasant and private accommodations away from the close proximity of common, base-born soldiery. They will all be lodged there in comfort until this treaty is completed and they can return home. And in the meantime, I can wage my war while the Lady Deirdre sues with Lot for your deliverance." He paused, evidently thinking, and then resumed. "Your guards will take you back now, but will you ask your Lady Deirdre to return here with them, and tell her, if you please, that she will not be harmed in doing so?" He saw her nod and returned the gesture as he stood up. "My thanks for this." He beckoned to one of the guards. "Return the lady to her friends and bring back the woman Deirdre."

Ygraine approached the meeting with Uther with misgivings, her mind still full of the terrifying comment he had made to her concerning Deirdre of the Violet Eyes. His mention of that name had shattered what small degree of equanimity had been left to Ygraine, because the impossibility of his knowing it had been, to her sure knowledge, complete and unequivocal. Uther Pendragon could not ever, under any conceivable circumstances, have heard anything of Deirdre of the Violet Eyes, because Deirdre of the Violet Eyes had died as a mere child and had been dead for many years, and during the brief span of her life she had never left her home in Eire, beyond the sea and far beyond the knowledge of an untutored savage from the mountains of Cambria.

Now, summoned into Uther's presence, she walked slowly. Dyllis had informed her about every aspect of her own conversation with the Pendragon King, but still Ygraine wondered what might be coming. The guards, somewhat to her surprise, made no attempt to hurry her along, but merely walked beside her, adjusting their pace to hers. Abruptly aware of that, she stopped moving altogether, simply to see what they would do, and they stopped with her, standing in silence, waiting for her to start walking again.

They arrived soon after that at the tent that Dyllis had described to her, where the large, saddled horse still stood grazing beneath the hawthorn tree. There was no sign of Uther Pendragon, and when one of her guards bade her be seated, Ygraine obeyed the instruction and sat in one of the two chairs.

A short time later, Uther approached through the trees, surprising her because she had assumed he was in the tent. He came striding towards her, removing his helmet and drying perspiration from his forehead with the crook of his elbow, and when he reached the table in front of her he stopped and inclined his head in an informal salute.

"I am glad you agreed to speak with me," he said. "And grateful."

She looked directly up at him, keeping her face free of expression. "Grateful? You mean I could have chosen not to come?"

"Of course."

"And had I so chosen, what then?"

"Then my guards would have brought you anyway, but not so gently."

"I see. Well, now that we both understand the terms of my presence here, what would you have of me? I have no wish to remain any longer than I must."

"Lady," the big man said with a rueful grin, "I was jesting. In truth, had you chosen not to come, I would have come to you, instead." He looked over to where the two guards stood at attention and nodded to one of them. "I no longer need you. I'll look after the lady myself now. Dismiss." He stood watching the two troopers as they marched away in lockstep, then turned back to where Ygraine sat watching him. "I will not keep you long. I imagine that the Lady Dyllis has already informed you as to what I want of you?"

"You mean regarding the Queen and her ransom."

"Yes." He placed his helmet carefully on the tabletop, then reached out and took hold of the other chair, pulling it towards him. When it was positioned properly, he swept his cloak out from behind him and slung it across his arm to keep it out of the way before he sat down across from her with the table between them. When he was securely seated, he released the folds of his cloak, draping them across his knees, and then looked her directly in the eye.

"Would you be willing to serve as liaison between myself and Gulrhys Lot in this matter of the Queen and your captivity ?"

"To what end?"

He frowned, a quick drawing together of his brows that briefly registered surprise that she would ask such a thing. "Why . . . to the end of gaining your Queen's release. What other end could there be?"

Ygraine tilted her head to one side and made no effort to disguise the depth of her cynicism. "Well, let me see . . . You are a man like Gulrhys Lot, so that means there could be ancillary ends . . . pressing, even self-serving reasons for your concern over the Queen. I say that with no wish to offend you, but surely you must see how someone might judge your concern for her welfare as springing from reasons more concerned with your good than with hers. You might, for example, hope to gain some military or even monetary advantage over King Lot from your possession of her person."

He gazed at her, straight-faced, but she fancied she saw a hint of humour in his eyes. "No, never! How could you even think such a thing might be possible? That I, or anyone, might seek personal gain from such a circumstance?"

"Laugh at me if you wish, Sir King, and hope as highly as you may. Your hopes will be soon dashed."

He gazed at her for several moments after that before he responded. "How so?"

She pursed her lips, then spoke quietly. "Why, because you will be basing false hope upon Gulrhys Lot's sense of honour and his regard for his wife, the Queen."

Uther smiled a small, chilly smile. "Lady, I would never be fool enough to suspect Lot of knowing what honour is, so how then could I base any hope upon his having any? But are you telling me he has no regard for his Queen?"

"No, I am not. I am telling you that Gulrhys Lot is not sufficiently weak as to allow consideration for any woman, be it his wife or even his mother, to interfere with what he believes to be his destiny. You may send anyone you please to talk with him and to create some set of terms by which he may obtain the Queen's freedom, but he will gull you at the end and use your silly honour to gut you when you least expect it."

"Would he do that if it cost him his Queen's life? I doubt that, lady. Not even Gulrhys Lot would be so careless of the fate of his lady wife."

Ygraine smiled, but without humour. "Doubt all you wish, it matters not to me."

"So you will not go to Lot, to deal with him on behalf of the Queen?"

She made no response, but looked over to where the horse had stopped cropping and now stood with his head erect, his ears t witching from side to side as he took note of the noises around him.

"Lady? I require an answer of you, if you will. Are you telling me you will not go to Gulrhys Lot bearing my message? I have arranged that you will not go alone. The other woman, Dyllis, will accompany you."

"She told me that already. And I will go if you yet wish to send me, but I can tell you now, before we proceed farther, that should I go, Lot will not permit me to return. There would be no advantage to him in so doing."

"Of course there would. He would regain his Queen."

"Aye, but at what cost? Besides, Ygraine is no Queen. Boudicca of the Iceni was a Queen; she ruled her people truly, but men killed her four hundred years and more ago. Ygraine is a King's wife, no more than that—not even a companion, and less than a concubine. She is a dowered wife bestowed upon Lot by her father to seal a bargain made between two men. Her value may be accurately gauged in terms of weapons, warriors, and gold and silver bars, and Lot already has all those in his possession. Those things subtracted, Ygraine the so-called Queen is merely another woman, and no King ever lacks for women . . . did you not know that? By simply keeping Dyllis and me, Lot could undo all you think to have gained at this time. You would have deprived him of a woman who was but a wife, but in so doing, you would have presented him with two replacements, potential concubines to be used without commitment."

Uther was staring at Ygraine now with widened eyes. "By the gods, lady," he murmured. "You have no great love for your King, do you?"

"Love? I said nothing of love. But I have no great regard for Kings. Indeed, I have but little love for men in general, and when men and matters of governance are mixed, I have found that women always fare badly. Gulrhys Lot is a man and so are you, and both of you take pride in being Kings. Between the two of you, you possess all the wealth and all the weapons you require to wage your wars, and that makes us, as women, insignificant."

"Hmm." Uther sat staring at her, pinching his lower lip between finger and thumb. Finally he sighed and stood up. "What makes a person or an event insignificant? I do not expect you to answer that, Lady Deirdre, but it occurs to me that there is something I should tell you now, so that you can pass the information to your Queen before she hears a different version elsewhere." He paused and scratched his chin. "There has been one occurrence here within recent days that might seem more significant than it really is, if it were reported wrongly. Five days ago, a party of my men marched out of here, escorting some six score of men captured in the raid in which we also took you prisoner. All of these six score men were common soldiery, wearing the shoulder insignia of Herliss. Today, my men returned, but they brought no prisoners back with them. Now, what think you about that?"

She was staring at him, appalled. "You killed them? No, you could not do that." It was almost a question, and he could see from her expression that she believed he could indeed do exactly that. He said nothing, gazing at her in silence until she blurted, "You murdered all of them ? Six score of them?"

"Aye," he said, sighing. "That's what I thought you would think—the first thing that sprang into your head. No, lady, I did not murder them, nor did I have my men murder them on my behalf. I gave them back their weapons and some food and set all of them free on the high moors, miles from anywhere."

"Hah! You expect me to believe that? That you would free men to return home and rearm themselves to come against you again? I would have to be a fool to think so!"

He shrugged his wide shoulders, looking her in the eyes and seeing how desperately she would have liked to believe him. "Perhaps you are, then. You would know that better than I. I think, though, that you would certainly be a fool to think that any of those men would dare go back again to Lot, expecting forgiveness for having lost his wagons and his siege engines, as well as his wife and all her ladies . . . but most particularly his siege engines. I doubt if I would be that brave or that foolish . . .

"I set them free, lady, certain that they all knew that Lot would never have done the same. None of those men will ever come against me again, and that is no more than the simple truth."

She gazed into his eyes, recognizing that it was as he said, and she felt something, something that had been hard and sharp-edged, break loose and fall away inside her.